


Long Way to Happy

by guardianoffun



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: (for the most part), Canon Compliant, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 02:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: A closer look at the tangled lives of Malcolm Reed and Trip Tucker. From newfound friendship to sometimes lovers to being separated and thrown back together again. Their lives across the first four years weren't always the easiest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So! This fic has been nearly a year in the making.. It's gone on so lon I feel as though I have changed through writing this, and I'm not even entirely sure I still like this. But I feel having worked on it for so long I may as well post it. The style ain't solid, and POV kinda swings though for the most part it's Malcolm, you get some Trip too. 
> 
> Fun fact, over the course of writing this, I also wrote my dissertation, and somehow this has ended up so much longer... anyways, I must thank everyone who has read this over the year for me, you guys all know who you are <3 you helped me carry on! 
> 
> Warnings for here: there are some darker themes, dealing with depression and a lot of alcohol mentions. I'd also suggest having watched all of Enterprise if you haven't already, this fic follows the show for the most part and the list of episode spoilers is stupidly long. That is until 'Demons', I refuse to follow the show past 'In a Mirror Darkly', so yeah, none of the Terra Prime stuff really happens - but that's for later. 
> 
> The character deaths are all minor, either OCs for this story or canon compliant deaths.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy, this has been my slow-going project for so long now, and is also the single longest fic I have ever written. Sorry for changing chapter lengths, I cut where I felt it fit more than for a certain number of words, but I think it works! 
> 
> Anyways, on with the story. Hope you like <3

Malcolm Reed comes out when he’s half dead and drunk in an ice cold shuttlepod. He licks his lips, hums as though the two of them aren’t breathing their last and says it.

“I’m gay.”  

Trip stares for a moment, then nods. The cold is already making it hard to move, so he is, for once in his life, putting thought into his words before expelling the last snatches of warm air he has in him. Malcolm beats him too it though, sniffing to cover a small sob. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that.” His voice is rough and raspy, and Trip winces for him. “Not even Maddie...You’re the first person…” he trails off, and Trip would have responded only Malcolm’s lips are blue and his eyes are rolling back. Cold and stiff, he doesn’t even slump as he succumbs to the cold. Thirty minutes later, as something on the console beside them flickers, Trip follows suit, landing in Malcolm’s lap.

* * *

Trip doesn’t mention any of it the evening after. The two of them are sat on neighbouring beds, chef’s best tea cradled between still-cold fingers in a comfortable quiet. He isn’t even sure if Malcolm remembers what he had been saying in his last moments of lucidity, but there is none of the tell-tale blush that usually accompanies Malcolm’s interactions with senior officers. So Trip doesn’t say anything because he’s finally cracked some of Lieutenant Reed’s icy exterior, and he’s worked too hard to ruin their new found friendship now.

Instead he smiles over his cup, gets a little grin in return and then hugs his blanket tighter to him. They’re still looking at another night in sickbay, so he might as well get comfy.

* * *

It’s a few months later, after a near death struggle with an alien entity that Trip comes out. A mix of thoughts prompts it, the thought that he might die, the same feeling Malcolm had of needing to say it before he went - but also the fact that Rostov and Kelly now knew and despite good intentions, news travels fast on a ship with little gossip. Before Malcolm overhears it in a whispered conversation, Trip makes it common knowledge. He’d rather be open about it than leave people talking behind his back.

He strides into Malcolm’s cabin that evening, beer in hand.  Funny how so many of their deep talks happen over a drink. 

“Thought I should say it, ‘fore the gossip. I’m bi.” Malcolm nods, smiles a bit. 

“There’s a few of us onboard, it seems,” he says, nudging a light elbow into Trip’s side. “We should throw a pride party.” Trip chuckles. 

“So you  _ do _ remember telling me?” Malcolm waves a finger at him over the top of his bottle. 

“Ah, so  _ you _ remember hearing it?” He takes a swig and then sighs. They laugh, because otherwise they remember that night, and they can still feel the cold if they about it think too hard. Malcolm has an idea, about four drinks in, and reaches under his bed. There’s a dusty bottle of vodka under there, nasty stuff with an alcohol content twice his age. He drops a couple of glasses on the desk and pours two messy shots. 

He hoists his up and toasts. “To the ladies!” Then he leans over and winks at Trip, gives his bicep a quick squeeze. 

“And the gentlemen,” he purrs, and Trip is suddenly feeling a lot of things, especially in his pants. He grabs his glass and nods.

“I’ll drink to that!” He throws the drink back before he can dwell on it further. Malcolm’s already filled his glass again, is downing his shot while Trip refills his. Neither of them quite know why but they don’t stop after that. Neither is on duty tomorrow, they can both sleep in, so they both keep drinking. 

Sitting on chairs becomes a struggle for Malcolm and he winds up on the floor, flat out, with his head tilted upwards. A dopey smile stretches across his lips as he stares up at Trip. The commander snorts with laughter, and then Malcolm joins and it’s the most fun either of them have had in months. Malcolm manages, at some point, to haul himself up onto his elbows, back pressed against his bed. Trip slips from his chair to fall next to him as they ramble on at each other; Malcolm giving wildly inaccurate retellings of historic naval battles, Trip offering up embarrassing family stories. Their words don’t mean much, not really; it’s the company that matters. The feeling of familiarity, of comfort in others. 

Trip is sprawled out, long legs stretching across Malcolm’s limited floor space, hip against the other man’s side, head on his shoulder. He can’t see Malcolm’s face, but luckily when drunk, Malcolm’s hands become very expressive. Trip watches quiet for a while as Malcolm describes some sorry tale about a date gone wrong. He nods in all the right places, laughs when he feels Malcolm’s chuckle through his shoulders. He sits up towards the end, watching as Malcolm wistfully mourns a boyfriend gone too soon.

Something about the way he pouts punches Trip in the gut, and he scrambles to sit up properly. 

“When was the last time you were with someone?” he asks and Malcolm’s too drunk to even be shocked by the question. He stares off into space, lips moving wordlessly as he tries to do the maths. Trip has to stop himself from kissing him right there and then, but then Malcolm says “Oh, it’s been a few years.” 

So Trip fixes that. He grabs Malcolm’s chin, pulls him close and they share a sloppy kiss. When they part, Malcolm’s eyes are hazy, his is breath short

“Fuck,” he says, or rather groans. There’s a split second where Trip thinks he’s messed up, but then Malcolm is straddling his waist, bending low to attack his lips again. Trip moans against Malcolm’s warm mouth, lets him take control as he explores Trip’s body. Hands reach under shirts and down pants, nails scrape skin leaving streaks of red that will last till morning. The air in the room is thicker now, heavier and it pushes them closer together. 

Trip whines, pleading suddenly for Malcolm to hurry up and just do something because it’s been years for him too. Malcolm, ever the loyal subordinate, follows orders, undoing trousers with those elegant hands of his. It’s too slow, though, so Trip reaches to help, then offers his hands to Malcolm’s body, roaming his sides while he presses into his lap. One hand cups his ass through worn joggers, the other reaching for his shirt. It comes off with a tug and a tear, tossed aside where Malcolm will find it later, not at all regretful about its demise. On his lap, Malcolm is breathless as Trip’s hands continue their journey across his backside, making delicious noises any time Trip pinches him. 

They make it, at some point, to the bed-kind of. Trip sits at on the end, legs thrown wide so Malcolm can fit between them, putting his sharp tongue to some use other than words. Turns out he’s proficient in that department too, bringing Trip to the edge and back over and over before finally letting him finish with a wicked grin. Trip’s made a mess of both of them, so he makes it up by flipping Malcolm on his back and returning the favour right there on the floor. He starts with his hands, prompting more of those groans from Malcolm, while he runs his teeth along the toned muscles of his abdomen. Malcolm can barely keep still, so Trip has to move his hands up, pinning him to the floor. He ducks his head down, only slightly disappointed to miss the wildly flustered look on Malcolm’s face, because actually, the view from down here is pretty good too. 

He can still, just about, see Malcolm press a hand to his eyes, the other knotting itself in Trip’s hair. He babbles, incoherent noises mostly, a few expletives and Trip’s name a few times, but mostly low moans. When he finishes, it’s with one loud “Fuck!” that makes Trip’s ears ring. 

The night ends in a hazy but wonderful blur, a mess of limbs tangled together. Malcolm’s chest makes a good pillow for Trip’s head so he curls against him, one hand lazily tracing shapes across his stomach. Malcolm hums in contentment. 

“That was good,” he mumbles into Trip’s hair. Trip grunts in agreement. 

“Should do it again sometime…” he suggests, before drifting off to sleep, and Trip is quick to follow. 

* * *

When they wake the next morning, still huddled under a blanket pulled from Malcolm’s bed, things are strangely okay. Malcolm had expected Trip to regret it immediately, and Trip was half expecting to wake up alone. Instead they lie together for a while, waiting for the room to stop spinning till they haul themselves up. Malcolm dives into his bathroom, Trip finds a more comfortable spot on the bed. His back aches from sleeping on the floor, but Malcolm’s must be worse for serving as a mattress all night. When he wanders back in, now with a pair of boxers slung on, Trip pats the bed.

“Back must be sore,” he says, and Malcolm nods. He falls into the space beside him, elbows on his knees as he looks out across his room. Trip carefully reaches a hand out and places it on the small of his back. 

“Let me?” he offers, and Malcolm nods again. Carefully Trip massages out the tough knots, most of which he’s sure were there long before last night. Malcolm melts at his touch and they wind up lying down again, chest to back on the small bed.

While Malcolm hasn’t scarpered, he hasn’t said anything either, or even looked Trip in the eye. For a moment there is nothing but the sound of them breathing. Then Trip murmurs.

“Malcolm… look at me?” 

The rustle of bedsheets follows, and Malcolm rolls over to face him. There’s that blush, pink splashed across his nose. Trip has the strange idea of kissing it, to see if it’ll spread. That must be the vodka still in his system. 

“This… this hasn’t ruined anything has it?” he asks, not sure he wants to hear the answer. Malcolm holds his breath for a moment, hoping he’s about to say the right thing.

“No… not if we don’t want it to?” he says, and it sounds a lot calmer than he feels. This is his superior, this is the ship's chief engineer. This is his best friend. He fucked his superior, oh how ashamed his father would be. Trip smirks, and any thoughts of shame are gone in an instant. 

“Nah, the sex wasn’t that bad,” and Malcolm reaches up to whack him over the head. 

“You’re an ass,” he chides, and Trip grins. 

“So we can do this again?” he asks, putting on his most charming tone. Malcolm shrugs.

“God knows I’m not getting it from anyone else.” Trip snorts, but he can’t talk, because he’s in the same boat. They’ve been aboard a while now, and sometimes you need a little intimacy. There are crewmen who have paired off, unofficially dating so that they slip under the radar of fraternisation regs. It’s not uncommon for there to be causal relationships aboard extended missions like theirs. So there, in Malcolm’s room a pact is made. They have each other, for days like today, when they need a little TLC or just to unwind. 

A bottle of something strong becomes their signal, offering it is an offer for a night spent in bed, or in the shower or on the desk. The next time it happens is the day after Trip and the captain’s long walk through the desert. He knocks on Malcolm’s door, bottle in hand and grins ruefully. Malcolm opens the door, and there are already glasses in his hands. Smiles pass between them, but very few words.


	2. Chapter 2

A year later, and they’re still falling into bed every month or so; friends with benefits, stress relievers, unofficial fuckbuddies, whatever you want to call it. Whenever it’s been a long day, when they’ve been cooped up for too long, when a quick wank in the shower just doesn’t do it. It’s always cramped, uncomfortable and far from perfect, but they get what they need. 

A trip to Risa is an excuse to share an actual double bed for once, to spend the night fucking each other in the comfort of a luxurious hotel room. Early morning is spent in sunlight for once, rather than the same expanse of space they have been travelling past these past months. That evening is spent in a bar, and of course they wind up drunk in the streets and then mugged by a pair of aliens who leave them bound up in the back of a bar somewhere. While it gives Malcolm some wonderful fantasies of having Trip all strung up, as the day drags on they bicker, their usual banter becoming a little meaner than normal.

Malcolm is reminded why they’re friends and only friends, maybe friends who fuck each other. It’s out of need more than desire, he tells himself, never mind the fact Trip is the only common factor in all of his illicit thoughts. The two of them, confined for any stretch of time seems to only end in arguments. At least, he supposes, the whole escapade leaves them with a good story, and nobody bothers to ask how they spent their first night anymore.

Things cool down after their holiday, and they look to stop indefinitely when Malcolm finds himself pinned to the hull of the ship some weeks later. Trip’s heart is in his throat as he watches him struggle, listens to his musings as the captain fights to free him with bated breath. White hot rage consumes him when Malcolm almost dies because how dare that idiot think he’s worth sacrificing.

When Trip gets his hands on him, he’s going to kill him - but not before pulling him in for a hug. He storms into the cargo bay, T’Pol and Phlox quick on his heels, barely stopping to let the doors open before rushing to Malcolm’s side. He reaches out wanting to help, but at the painful sight of Malcolm’s leg, run through with the spike, he reels. There’s nothing he can do except hover while Phlox tends to Malcolm, so he lets one hand hover in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. The question of how to get the lieutenant to sickbay in the most painless way possible is answered when the fast acting pain medication wears off; he goes white as a sheet and passes out in the captain’s arms.

Jon nods at Trip and they take ahold of him and lift, just in time for the medical staff to arrive. He’s lowered onto the stretcher and wheeled out, and Trip follows. Mouth set in a thin line, he can’t laugh at whatever joke Jon’s trying to crack. He feels bad for it, knows his friend is only trying to make things better, but he still can’t quash the flickering fear in his chest.

It’s ridiculous, because Phlox is the best doctor in Starfleet, and Malcolm is going to be fine, but Trip’s still a jumbled mess of emotions. They don’t leave him all night, as he paces his room. Banned from sickbay, he falls into an incredibly light sleep and wakes at every little creak of the ship. When morning arrives he finds himself heading for sickbay before the mess hall, pushing through the doors with his heart hammering.

Malcolm sits, slumped against a pile of pillows, half awake. His eyes are hazy, his hair sticking up like it does after a rough night, lips parted for words he cannot form just yet. Trip runs over and lays a hand on his shoulder and Malcolm falls into it, nodding dumbly at the touch.

“How’s the leg?” he asks but Malcolm doesn’t respond, only lets out a sigh and then drops back against the mound of cushions. Phlox shuffles over and smiles at Trip.

“He’s still sleeping off the sedatives from surgery,” he says, reaching for the blanket on the man’s lap. He lifts it gently and slides up Malcolm’s gown so he can change the bandages that have turned a nasty red overnight. Trip watches as the fresh bandage is drawn tight across the middle of his thigh. The artificial white of the gauze is only a few shades away from the pale skin of Malcolm’s legs, except for the smudge of dark purple, the sore and tender skin that peeks from underneath.

Trip swallows hard, and manages to croak. “Can he walk?” Knowing Malcolm, being bed bound for any amount of time will stress him no end and if he faces a lifetime with an injured leg it might well drive him mad. Phlox shrugs, and pulls the blanket back into place. Malcolm groans, a painful sound that neither man can ignore. A sad smile on Phlox’s face reassures Trip that he isn't the only one this worried. This is normal.

“The spike missed the bone, which is good. I repaired his muscle tissue as best I could, but I can’t work miracles. Walking’s going to hurt,” he says and Trip groans this time.

“He’s not gonna like that doc,” he says shaking his head. Phlox smiles, somewhat sadly. “Indeed, Mr. Tucker… Indeed.”

* * *

When Malcolm wakes next, it’s with a low groan. He feels almost weightless, in a way, enough drugs still swirling in his system to make his limbs feel loose and his neck weak. The only grounding thing is the constant throbbing in his leg that feels, he chuckles bitterly, as though it’s pinning him to the bed. The pain is the only real feeling in the otherwise hazy detachment that sickbay brings. It’s as though the rest of the ship doesn’t exist, just him, Phlox and the blessedly quiet collection of critters he has tucked away.

Malcolm glances around, and finds himself mistaken. Trip is here, hunched awkwardly in a chair beside him. One hand below his chin, he’s asleep, barely held up by a wavering arm. A lump appears in Malcolm’s throat, unbidden emotions suddenly swelling. He’s touched, and there’s a flutter in his chest at the sight. He jerks suddenly, horrified at his own admission. Alarms are ringing in his head, warnings screeching that this is risky, to allow anything other than friendship fill him.

He blinks away the tears that have appeared, blames the sudden onslaught of feelings on the medication, and instead shifts over and lies with his eyes shut until he slips back to sleep.

* * *

Life for Malcolm over the next few weeks is nothing short of hell. For a week, he is under orders from Phlox, then Archer and then Trip, to stay in bed. He hates it, but reluctantly goes along, because- while he won’t admit it - his leg burns anytime he tries to even shift it. Phlox is weaning him off the painkillers, and it feels as though each morning he wakes to more pain.

A fortnight later, he’s wheeled back to his own room. The pain has levelled out to just a constant throbbing, though it screams in agony any time he tries to put any weight on it. Phlox finds him a set of crutches, but they sit at the end of the bed still, taunting him until he has to hobble to the bathroom. Trip turns up one night, booze in hand but Malcolm waves it away.

“Phlox’ll have my head if I do any more damage to myself,” he sighs, wincing as he rearranges himself on the bed. The commander hovers for a moment, not wanting to risk jogging Malcolm’s leg.

“Oh stop dithering you idiot, sit down,” he says, patting the space beside him. Trip pretends to ignore the pained look on Malcolm’s face as he lowers himself onto the mattress and grabs himself a drink, for which Malcolm is thankful. The last thing he wants is to acknowledge the thing that’s put his entire life on hold for the foreseeable future. They chat idly for a while, Trip giving him updates about the armoury and ship gossip. It does little to lift Malcolm’s mood, though; he still sits, fidgeting uncomfortably. He’s restless. Trip gives him a light pat on the back, and it seems that’s all the invitation Malcolm needs. He falls against him, his pinched face buried in Trip’s shoulder.

“I hate this,” he mumbles into the soft fabric of his shirt. Trip holds still for a while, surprised and oddly fascinated by the way Malcolm’s breath is making his skin tingle even through his top. Then he gently lifts a shoulder so Malcolm is facing him.

“Want me to take your mind off it?” he asks tentatively. Malcolm turns a fantastic pink, his eyes suddenly stuck on the bulkhead behind Trip, but he nods anyway.

“If… if you wouldn’t mind,” he says, and so, for the first time, they kiss sober. Slowly, as to protect Malcolm’s leg, Trip pushes him back, into the pillows, while kissing him lazily. There’s still a taste of whiskey on his lips, and Malcolm seems determined to find every bit of it. Time seems to slip away as they become breathless in each other's arms. They don’t do much more than kiss and grope at each other, Malcolm still too sore to think about moving much, but it still distracts him from the dull ache long enough for him to actually smile. This isn’t the hurried and needy sex from before, this is slow and gentle caresses in the darkness; less need, more pleasure. For one night, in the half light, they share what could have been.

* * *

In the following days Trip checks in regularly, though there’s no more making out like horny teenagers, because Malcolm spends most of the day with Phlox, doing physio that leaves him aching and angry. It’s not like before though; Malcolm is grumpier than normal and gets snappy whenever Trip tries to help. Then he looks flustered and apologises for being rude, and Trip forgives him because he knows he’s just tired of being unfit for duty. He sits and watches as Malcolm pushes himself from his bed to reach the book on his desk, shoving it under his arm so he can hobble clumsily back to the bed. The whole process takes well over five minutes, and Malcolm’s face is drenched with sweat. He waves off any offer of help, determined to do things himself and Trip can’t help but think he’s going to make himself worse.

He doesn’t tend to stay very long, because eventually Malcolm passes out, exhausted. He leaves reports on his desk, tucks a blanket over him and leaves for the night, glad to have provided company even if only for an hour or so.

Things start looking up after some of Phlox’s more inventive treatments, and that’s when they find the station; the one that offers a solution to both their ship troubles and Malcolm’s leg. Trip’s heart starts beating a mile a minute as he looks at the screen showing their injured tactical officer. This might bring Malcolm’s smile back for good, let him get back to the job and, Trip flushed at the thought, the activities that he missed so much.

The next time he sees Malcolm, he’s strolling into the station’s cafeteria. He grins, sauntering over to Trip’s table with his hands outstretched.

“What do you think?” he asks, planting his leg on the chair. He slaps at his thigh. “It’s as good as new,” he says, and Trip doesn’t think he’s ever seen him happier.

“Very nice,” he nods, then points over to the protein resequencers - no, the replicators - in the wall. “You can use them to grab me a drink,” he says, and maybe Malcolm picks up on something in his voice because he raises an eyebrow.

“We’re on duty commander - coffee?” Trip nods. “Sounds perfect lieutenant.” Malcolm chuckles as he lopes off towards the machine, a spring in his step that makes Trip’s smile almost impossible to hide. It’s about time Malcolm’s up and running again, ready to throw himself into whatever misadventure awaits them next.

* * *

They share nights together on and off for a few months after, starting a week or so later after a stressful trip to a mining colony. Malcolm is making sure to get full use of his newly-healed leg, tangling it with Trip’s while he pins him to the bed, a renewed passion burning in him when he straddles Trip. Strong thighs wrap around Trip’s middle, squeezing him with every twitch of their hips, and it sends sparks through the engineer. In between moans and curses, hands find their way to each other, Malcolm clutching Trip’s larger ones to his chest, guiding them across his body. He grabs at Malcolm, rough and needy and it feels so good to be able to take him like this again. No more gentle moments, nothing soft and slow, because they both know that is dangerous. It allows space for things to grow in between, thoughts and feelings more dangerous than anything else out in the darkness of space. 

Rough and heavy, hard and fast, that’s how this is, and how it always will be.

* * *

 

Time rolls on as the Enterprise continues her exploration of space. Malcolm and Trip find that nothing much changes between them, their lives too full of away missions and adventures to let them really stop to think about the nature of their friend-but-maybe-a-little-more-ship. Their lives are too fast, too action packed to allow for much more than casual relations. That’s the way they both prefer it, actually.

Then their lives come to a halt in the most sudden and heartbreaking ways of all when the Xindi probe cuts a line of devastation across Earth. The entire crew is lost in a jumbled mess of emotions that has to be pushed aside as they race home, and the two men find it hard to speak to each other.

Trip shuts himself up, worry gnawing at him as his eyes trace the line through his little sister’s home, and Malcolm is more unsure than ever of what to say. He has no way of making any of this better, isn’t sure he can offer anything that will help. He still asks if Trip wants company when he visits Florida though, just in case, and he’s both surprised and relieved when Trip nods stiffly. They make most of the journey in silence, and Malcolm pretends not to see the dirty looks they’re getting from mourning civilians as they duck around the barricades. They pick their way across rubble and debris, and it gets harder to ignore what they are walking on - there are remnants of life scattered everywhere. A burnt looking wallet, half a pair of spectacles, something that, once upon a time, might have been a set of keys. Broken pushchairs, upturned cars and shattered windows.

It’s too much for anyone to witness, and there’s a knot in his chest that only tightens as he watches Trip look out across the chasm. There isn’t anything he can think to say, other than sorry. Trip doesn’t even seem to acknowledge it, though; he just starts talking. Points out where things were, things he used to do with his sister. Malcolm watches from a step behind as Trip’s shoulders heave as he takes deep breaths to calm himself. Malcolm wants to step forward and reassure him, but what can he say?

“Are you sure she was… here? When this… happened?” he asks. Trip shrugs, and when he looks into his eyes, there’s a hopeless look in them. The face, Malcolm thinks, of a someone who wants so badly to be wrong.

“Someone would’ve heard from her if she wasn’t.” When he blinks, a tear finds its way across his face. He turns, breaking away from Malcolm’s gaze. They fall back into silence, because what good are words now? No good, when Trip’s breath catches, or when his tears become sobs. Words are no good, so Malcolm just catches him when he falls, lets Trip cry against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around him as tightly as he can, holding Trip for an eternity, until at least the tears stop falling.


	3. Chapter 3

The next six months pass uneasily. The once excitable atmosphere aboard the starship is replaced with a sombre one. Movie nights become fewer, the occasional celebrations of birthdays become quiet affairs, and hope has been swapped for a grim resignation to a fate that the entire crew knows could see them die out here. 

Malcolm and Trip don’t see much of each other outside of their duties anymore, Malcolm too busy throwing himself into his work, Trip often in too foul a mood to talk. When they do have a moment to talk, a lot of what he says is spiteful and bitter. Malcolm wonders if Trip is angry at him and - rightfully or wrongly - the fact that Maddie is still alive and well. He snaps at Malcolm that he should be grateful that his sister is still alive, and as much as Malcolm wants to be sympathetic, that really gets his back up.

Trip acts as though Malcolm doesn’t thank the God he gave up on years ago every day that his sister is alive. As though he didn’t race to his quarters the night of the attack and spend hours on call to her. As though the number of letters between the two hasn’t increased, because both Reed siblings are terrified they might lose each other. He acts as though Malcolm is the same stiff-upper lipped officer he first met three years ago. As though none of the friendship they had built up till now had shown that was not the case.

It didn’t help when rumours of Trip and the sub-commander began circling the ship either. For some reason, it made Malcolm unreasonably angry. Trip turned down every offer of his to spend an evening together, shook his head at every drink Malcolm invited him for, but was content to disappear into T’Pol’s cabin each night. It wasn’t like Malcolm expected anything from him - the sex had been a stress relief and nothing more - but just spending some time together without Trip being a complete asshole would be appreciated. They were friends now,least it had seem so. Now, with Christmas fast approaching, one night to drink to the holiday season didn’t feel like much of an ask.The whole thing was stirring emotions in Malcolm he thought he had been conquering, and the time of year didn’t help - not with old rotten memories rearing their ugly head again. He knew his gut instinct was to be distrustful of everyone he met (for God’s sake he kept most of his own family at arms length) but this crew, and Trip especially so, had begun to teach him it was not always bad to let people in.

He had allowed himself to open up to the crew, let them find a place in his life and his heart and now his fears were coming true. His reward for letting Trip in was being left on the doorstep the moment things got rough.

Maddie listened with a frown to him as he told her about it, and bless her, she tried to help. Pushed him to keep trying, to be the shoulder Trip needed despite the fact he kept lashing out. He tried, he truly did. Lighthearted banter about the rumours, subtle and stupid flirting - but Trip gave him a sharp glare and shut him up pretty quick. It made the anger in Malcolm burn twice as hot, and while he tried to laugh it off, the air suddenly felt an awful lot colder between them.

Now, everything was pissing him off, stupidly so. He found himself yelling at his security team more often than not, often flat out ignoring Trip, and worst of all he found himself rising to Hayes’ challenges. He thought maybe he’d got it out of his system when he finally cracked and took a swing at Hayes. It might have got him a telling off from the captain, and earned him a detached retina to boot, but it got rid of some of the tension that had been building in him. It had changed the atmosphere between them too, and suddenly Hayes’ smirk didn’t irritate him that much.

Left in the captain’s office, Malcolm made some witty comment, and Hayes stared at him till he laughed, a deep bark of a laugh that shot fire up Malcolm’s spine. As they left, the major runs a hand across the back of his neck and looks at him with an odd expression on his face.

“I.. uh, should apologise. Properly. For... detaching your retina.” He says. Malcolm laughs.

“I believe I started it Major, the apology is mine to make… sorry about the kidney,” he replies, smiling. Hayes scoffs too, as they enter the turbolift and Malcolm reaches for the control panel.

“Well then Lieutenant, I’m sorry for stooping to your level.” Though his voice is as deep and stern as always, there is a glint in his eyes. Malcolm eyes him back as he waves off the apology. He wonders, for a second, if there’s something in that look. Maybe it’s the concussion, but he speaks before he’s thought it through.

“How about a drink, by way of apology?” he asks, and he hates the fact his mind flickers to Trip. Hayes nods, and it pushes thoughts of Trip out, leaving him with images of Hayes instead. By the time they reach Malcolm’s door, his mind is already in dangerous territory. He regrets asking Hayes back instantly, until they pass through the door and there’s suddenly a hand at his shoulder.

“I can think of a better way to say sorry,” Hayes says simply. Malcolm stares as well as he can through hazy eyes and marvels at the fact Hayes is gorgeous even covered in bruises. He nods dumbly, leaning forward and falling awkwardly into the major’s chest.

“Sounds like… a great idea,” he murmurs, as Hayes pulls his chin up towards him. He apologises with long kisses and a tight grip and Malcolm responds with quick hands and urgent tugs. When Hayes tugs his uniform back on, Malcolm sits and watches from the side of the bed, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Not that he didn’t want to screw Hayes, no he’s been thinking about that since he landed the first punch a few hours ago, but now it’s opened another hundred cans of worms he doesn’t want to think about. He squeezes his eyes shut as Hayes leans over him and presses a light kiss above the bruise on his face.

“Sorry about that, again,” he says, before slipping out into the corridor. The feeling of his lips lingers, making itself knowing in the slight sting of the broken skin. Malcolm wonders if maybe he should feel something now, if any of this meant anything.

Apparently, Hayes likes him. A lot. He thought he felt something too before in the lift. There had been something in Hayes half smile, the way his tongue caught between his teeth maybe. It had just been the concussion then, making him see things, feel things, that weren’t there; that or the agonising loneliness he had felt for the past few months.

He sighs, stands and dresses again. Usually sex like that put him in a great mood, relaxed him better than any hot shower could, but now his  shoulders feel tight, his body aches and he’s more wound up than ever.

* * *

In the mess that evening he is able to ignore the stares of his crew members without glaring, though he doubts he could actually tell who he was looking at the moment. He is picking at his plate of spaghetti when someone sits down beside him, a blur of blue that shifts into focus as he turns his head.

Trip looks at him, one eyebrow raised enough to remind him of T’Pol. He swallows the bitterness that thought brought and waits for Trip to say something. If his lips are bruised, Trip isn’t saying anything about it.

“Looks painful,” he eventually says, and Malcolm ducks his head in agreement.

“Feels it,” he says, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth in lieu of talking. Trip looks at him like he expects him to say something, so like a petulant child he chews slower, shrugging. Trip sighs.

“Captain give you much trouble?” he asks, and Malcolm shrugs again. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but his entire face hurts and he just wants to go to leave before the cold mood he is in starts freezing the mess hall.

“Shouted a bit,” he say, poking at his dinner. “No Christmas presents for me this year,” Trip huffs.

“Well that’s your own fault isn’t it,” he said, giving Malcolm a disapproving look. “If you weren’t so pissy all the time-” That those words and that look, the thin lips and harsh brows, that’s the last straw for Malcolm. He throws his fork down onto his tray, standing abruptly. Trip looks up and has the gall to look shocked.

“Well,” Malcolm says, grabbing his dinner roughly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I am sorry that I’m so disagreeable, maybe you should go find someone else to spend your evening with. I hear the sub-commander’s free tonight.” He finds himself almost yelling, and glances around quickly. Eyes are on him, and suddenly he feels a lot less friendly.

Grabbing up his tray, he storms from the hall, throwing the tray into the bin as he leaves. His chest is heaving as all but runs down the corridor, and he breaths loud enough he can’t hear the footsteps following him. Just as he reaches the turbolift, someone grabs him by the shoulder and swings him around. He lands against the wall with a thud, and it makes his head pound.

“What the hell’s your problem?” Trip hisses at him as he groans. He drops him roughly, and Malcolm slumps for a moment, rubbing at his sore head. Trip stares at him, at least Malcolm thinks he does - everything is hazy at the moment.

“My problem?” he spits, raising a hand in Trip’s general direction. “I’ve got a list-”

Trip slaps his hand away a little too sharply, so any words he was going to say are stopped as Malcolm responds instantly with his other hand, slapping him across the face.

“What the fuck?” Trip yells as Malcolm grabs him by the collar. Their faces are so close they could kiss, but instead Malcolm lets his fingers curl like claws at him.

“Oh stop this,” He growls, and Trip’s face becomes stony.

“Stop what exactly, Lieutenant?” Malcolm’s hands twitch.

“Acting like you’re the only one whose life has been affected by this! You’re not the only one hurting here. You don’t see anyone else turning on their- people that were-” his jaw snaps shut as he tries to find the words, but anger is blurring his vision. He manages to unclench enough to let the words trickle out.

“People I thought were your  _ friends. _ ”

The confused, faux innocent look in Trip’s eyes is the last straw, and he finds his hands forming fists, Trip sees it too and before Malcolm can do anything the commander throws a punch at his gut. Already bruised flesh screams in agony again, and he doubles over, grunting. 

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at Reed,” He takes a hold of Malcolm’s shoulder and yanks him upright again. “You lay another finger on me, and I’ll have you in the brig before you can say-”

“Vulcan neuropressure?” Malcolm goads with a smirk. Trip roars, landing another punch at Malcolm’s chest that sends him sprawling. He lies winded, but laughs. It’s an unsettling sound. Trip steps over him, peering down at his face in barely concealed disgust.

“Is that what this is?” He asks incredulously. Malcolm takes a shuddering breath.

“What?” Trip starts laughing now, but it’s harsh and bitter.

“You’re jealous is that it? Gettin’ all stroppy ‘cause I choose to spend my time with someone else and not you for once?” His hands are on his hips, and he’s standing over Malcolm just close enough, that if he lifts his leg quick enough- Trip yells as he gets a foot between the legs, stumbles backwards enough for Malcolm to roll out, clamber to his feet and puff out his aching chest.

“You little bastard,” Trip spits, as he clutches at his bruised goods. Malcolm takes a step back and turns as though to leave and now it’s Trip’s turn to see red. He staggers and grabs at Malcolm’s arm, yanking him forward. One hand snatches Malcolm’s jaw and pulls him to face him.

“Just ‘cause we fuck every now an’ then don’t you go presumin’ you can tell me who I can and can’t spend my time with,” he says, in a voice so low Malcolm can only just hear it. “You ain’t got any special privileges, you got that? We’re nothin’, okay?”

Malcolm reels for a moment, blood roaring in his ears, making it hard to concentrate. He hurts all over now, but Trip’s words have cut him deeper than any of his punches have. His lips curl into the most disgusted grimace he can muster.

“Oh, so fucking T’Pol’s not getting you any bonuses?”

Trip’s fist comes out of nowhere, but it connects with the side of his face with enough force to crack his head up against the wall. He’s dropped again and falls into a pile on the decking below. Trip’s voice floats down through the haze, somehow still sharp enough to slice through the fog that’s overwhelming him.

“Stay away from me Reed.”

He manages to push himself up enough to look up into Trip’s eyes, but everything is going disturbingly dark. It doesn’t matter though, because the hatred in Trip’s is clear enough. Silence reigns for a few seconds, and then footsteps. Sitting alone in the empty corridor, the adrenaline seeps away pretty quickly. Trip’s words ring so loudly in his ears that he only vaguely realises he can barely see through one eye.

Clambering to his feet in a manner most unbefitting of a Reed, Malcolm tries to straighten his uniform, before making his way slowly to sickbay. So much for a very merry Christmas.

* * *

Malcolm stumbles back into his room an hour or so later, full of painkillers and in desperate need of a shower. Phlox had pursed his lips as he walked in, for the second time that day with blood on his face. Malcolm blames it on overexertion, not wanting another lecture from Archer about punching colleagues. Phlox had run a scanner over his face, sighed and then dosed him up. Trip’s last words were hovering around him still, the venom in them still seeping into his skin. They sat heavy in his chest and pulled his lips into a thin line.

Back in his room, he peels off his uniform. His chest is a matted mess of reds and purples, and it catches his eye in the mirror as he steps into his bathroom. Against the stark white of the bathroom walls, the bruises and blood stand out even more. Every breath sends pain through his chest, and his lip is still trickling blood. Phlox has done his best to repair the damage behind his eye, but it’s left the entire socket a dark maroon that stretches all the way past his eyebrow, meeting up with more cuts and scratches along his brow.

Slowly, he raises a hand, knuckles still bloody, and traces the cuts with a careful finger. Even so, blood beads along the wound and he grimaces. The anger has long since dissipated, and without the flames of rage to fuel him, he’s left hollow. Realisation has hit and whatever the feelings behind them, his actions were out of line. He sniffs, steps into the shower and for a long moment does not move.

He angered and then assaulted a senior officer, never mind who threw the first punch. He accused Trip of being a bad friend when he had been anything but these past years. He had made vile suggestions that the loss of Elizabeth Tucker was nothing important to anyone other than Trip, had tried to compare his own pitiful loneliness to the pain of losing one’s sister.

Disgust mixes with the nausea that has settled in his stomach, and suddenly Malcolm is retching, one hand up against the cold wall of the shower while he doubles over. What little dinner he had eaten threatens to reappear as he staggers to the toilet. Bile rises in his throat, as acidic as those God awful thoughts he has been having, and as he clears out his stomach, he tells himself this is just desserts.


	4. Chapter 4

Malcolm heeds Commander Tucker’s warning. There’s no Trip anymore, he’s lost that privilege, and now the only one he speaks to is the commander. When he does, it’s in short sentences about and only ever when work necessitates. Trip doesn’t even bother to reply unless the captain’s present, giving only a sharp jerk of the head to indicate he has been listening. They speak enough to keep the ship running but nothing further than that. 

It’s noticed, all around the ship. There’s no more friendly banter in engineering when Malcolm comes to do security checks, more often than not it’s not even him, he sends someone else in his place. Trip makes fewer appearances on the bridge, and he sits in his own chair for once when he does rather than hover behind Malcolm. Archer hears the abrasive tones in their conversation, and he doesn’t need Hoshi to translate the barbed words they share.

He tries asking Malcolm first, catching him at the end of shift and waving him over. When Malcolm moves, he’s still favouring one side slightly, though the bruises on his face have cleared up now. Archer tries to get a read on him, but Malcolm’s face is as unmoving as ever and gives no clues.

“What’s up with you and Trip?” he asks and he doesn’t miss Malcolm’s barely concealed flinch.

“Nothing sir,” he lies.

“Have you two had a falling out?” he asks and Malcolm stares right past him.

“Has my work suffered, captain?” he says, quick enough to stump Archer.

“Well, no-”

“Then no sir, everything’s fine. If I may?” He nods towards the turbolift and Archer has no choice but to nod, still unsatisfied.

He has better luck that evening, with Trip, over dinner and a game of polo. It’s quieter than normal, but it has been ever since the Xindi attack. His old friend is lost somewhere, somewhere in the darkest part of Florida maybe. They eat in near silence before Archer broaches the subject.

“Seen much of Malcolm lately?” he asks, and Trip stares at him, fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“Not much, I guess,” he says, trying to sound indifferent. Archer sighs, pushes his plate away and uses his most commanding face. Trip tenses, knuckles white and jaw clenched. Then he slams down the cutlery and throws his hands up.

“Sonuvabitch-” he starts, and then it all comes spilling out. Everything, all of it; their on-again-off-again affair, the attack, their argument and the punch up last week. Archer listens and nods and takes it all in, and at the end of it all has that tired look on his face. He can’t help but agree with Trip, that it sounds like Malcolm is being ridiculously jealous over nothing. Of course, he only has Trip’s side of the story, but talking to Malcolm is like getting blood from a stone, and even if he had the other side he knows Trip well enough to know he won’t stand around long enough to listen.

Instead he lets Trip blow off some steam, ranting and cursing till he’s blue in the face. Then once he’s calmed he hands him the last slice of pie and sends him to bed in the hopes that in a few days he’ll be able to think clearly. For now at least, this hasn’t affected their work, but it’s uncomfortable to say the least. He hopes that maybe the two of them will sort themselves out, but there’s that niggling worry deep in his gut that has the captain on edge.

* * *

Malcolm’s spiralling, and he knows it. It’s all starting again, those nasty little thoughts he thought he had a lid on now. His parents weren’t dragging his teenage self to the best therapist money could find for nothing every weekend. He tried to think back to her, the older lady with kind eyes and that soft voice. As he lies in his bed, unable to sleep as thoughts of Trip’s furious face made his heart hammer against his chest, he tries to remember her methods for dealing with the growing panic. He takes deep shuddering breaths and thinks about phase pistols and security drills until he has calmed enough to sit up. 

He laughs bitterly at the fact a man nearing forty is being kept up at night by anxiety attacks. He would ask Phlox for sleep medication but then that’s all over his medical record, so he makes do with his own. Gin or whiskey, tequila or vodka, it doesn’t matter which. Enough to make him drowsy, enough to make him stumble into bed and fall into an empty sleep.

* * *

People start talking, of course they do. He’s a clinically depressed officer with a drinking problem, not an idiot. People talk, they always do, but it’s annoyingly pitiful now. He overhears Ensign Keris wondering why he hasn’t smiled in days, crewman Lewis responding with a sad sigh that his older brother went through the same thing. It makes him furious. He snaps at the two of them, who hadn’t noticed him there, orders them to get to work or get out of his armoury. They run off at such a speed and it sends a vicious thrill through him and it surprises him that it’s the first feeling in a while he hasn’t hated.

He starts searching for it elsewhere, the rush of excitement that gets his blood pumping enough to feel again. Working out gets it, a little, more so if he finds a punching bag free. He punches till his fingers are bruised, sometimes longer. He should regret it the next day, when every press of a button send shooting pains through them, but it reminds him he’s alive. Something sharp to wake him from the constant fog he’s been living in for a while now.

He’s tempted, when Hayes offers dinner in his quarters, but he realises the man actually means dinner and as cold hearted as everyone may think Malcolm is he can’t bring himself to mess with Hayes and feelings and all those dangerous thoughts just for a quick shag. Hayes deserves better than a fucked up mess like him anyways.

All of this, he muses one night, over Trip bloody Tucker. This is just proof then, that Malcolm Reed shouldn’t have friends. He lets people get close, he allows himself to feel, to care, to love too much. He snaps up at the thought, and then hurriedly shoves it away. The less he thinks about it the less it will hurt, at least that’s his theory.

He tries to fill his mind with other things, thinks of nothing but the armoury and his guns and his projects, and when those are done he thinks about the work rotas and schedules. He spends night working on his EM barrier, stays late in the mess hall pouring over torpedo specifications. He researches every last security drill he can think of, perfects them and then spends hours teaching his team. He stalks off to the gym at unreasonable hours to have something, anything, even the sound of his feet pounding the treadmill, just anything to fill his mind instead.

As if the universe is fulfilling wishes in the most twisted ways, he gets his distraction. They find the Xindi. Archer tries to take a page from his book and flies in solo. Malcolm finds himself sitting on the bridge beside Trip but for once they aren’t at each other’s throats. When Trip’s voice wavers as he gives one last goodbye to his friend, Malcolm doesn’t even feel jealousy. Just a hollow sadness that this mission is slowly tearing apart the only group of people he cared for.

He works mechanically, jaw tensed and voice tight. For the first time in what feels like a long time, he and Trip are on the same page, both fiercely protective of their crew and the ship. Maybe if they work together they can get through this. Then suddenly, they’re surrounded, and the decking beneath them throws them around like ragdolls. Malcolm watches panels explode left, right and centre. The ship groans around them, and there are reports coming in from every part of the ship of injuries or explosions. Something happens in engineering, a blip on a screen somewhere tells them that before suddenly everything stops. Coms go down and everything goes to hell.

The ceiling buckles, and Travis only just leaps out of the way as something rips through it. Bulkheads are caving in, the walls start to tremble and then Malcolm’s console explodes in a fit of sparks. As the heat rolls over him, for a second he is frozen. He’s going to die here, and he thinks maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t taking the entire ship with him.

The ensign beside him is thrown across the bridge, and with his own station now useless with the amount of systems they’ve lost he leaps over to help the poor man. Sam, his name is, Sam from Florida. Malcolm wonders as he helps haul him to sickbay, if he was from the part that now lay in ruin, wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to ask, because there’s so much blood pouring from the young man’s head he’s not even sure he’ll make it to sickbay.

He hands him off to the nearest medic, and sends up an empty prayer. T’Pol calls him back to his station, and he hops over parts of their ship to get to his screens. The desk is still hot to the touch and it burns his fingertips as he scans the ship.

“Another breach on C deck,” he calls, cut short when something slices the air beside his head. He throws it a glance - one of the comm systems dislodged from the ceiling. 

“E deck’s depressurising,” he continues, spinning to glance at more readouts. Half of his screens are black, one of them alive but only barely clinging to the wall. Readouts flicker and he stares helpless for a second, all too aware of the taste of ash and smell of blood in the air. Anger flares up in him, and he turns to T’Pol.

“We can’t take much more of this!” he bellows, and then in almost an instant, the bombardment stops. The ship settles somewhat. They all wait with bated breaths for it to continue but it doesn’t and when Malcolm looks down he sees that the Xindi are moving off. Everything is still, far too still, but at least the attack has stopped.

They get to repairs and rescue as quick as they can. The com system is down and the first reports they manage to collect suggest that they’ve lose crewmen. Swallowing down the grief and the horrible fear that Trip might be amongst them, Malcolm does what Malcolm does best and works. He and T’Pol head for engineering first, and Malcolm spouts facts and figures the whole way, refusing to think about what lies in store for them in the half destroyed engine room.

He hopes the relief doesn’t show on his face when Trip is the first one to greet them, instead fixes his gaze on the engines and walkways around them, surveying the damage. They make arrangements quickly, T’Pol narrowly avoids being fried by a faulty console and they agree on sending extra hands to engineering. With the list of jobs growing exponentially and Trip being kept in engineering where his skills are best used, Malcolm’s acting as something of a first officer for the time being. T’pol turns on her heel to leave, but Malcolm catches Trip’s eye. He glances down and ducks his head - a reassuring gesture he hopes. Trip returns it with a grim smile.

Malcolm works with T’Pol on repairing what they can, and somehow he manages to ignore the hostile feelings she stirs in him though that is mostly done by ignoring her for work when possible. She moves quietly, and half the time it’s only when he sees her beside him that he realises she is there. He swallows any bitterness her presence brings and updates her on repairs. He goes with her to investigate the pod they find, is there when they find the captain. Hope flickers in his chest, even if Archer is bruised and beaten. Even if fourteen crewmembers are dead. Maybe things won’t get any worse now.

He’s in the armoury, not too long after they meet the other damaged ship, swapping data with crewman Lewis on the status of the torpedos when Archer marches in. He jerks his head and without missing a beat Malcolm follows him to a darkened corner. He listens as the captain tells him to ready some men, horror creeping in at the idea of stealing what they need from those just as helpless. Alarm bells start ringing, this isn’t right, but Archer shuts him down before he’s even had a chance to protest.

He grips the PADD in his hand a little tighter, frustration building behind his eyes into a throbbing headache. Of all the times Archer has ignored his ideas, this one hurts the most. The last straw he might say, the final sign that nobody actually gives a shit what Lieutenant Reed, head of security and tactical officer, thinks. It’s not like he’s a senior bridge officer or anything.

The rest of the day passes in somewhat of a blur. He does as he’s told and doesn’t try to persuade Archer to do much else, because when has that ever worked before. He feels disgusted the entire mission, does everything he’s told in the same cutoff way he did when they first started their mission. He’s falling back into old habit, and he knows it but with people around him acting as though his word means nothing, he finds it rather fitting to respond in kind. They steal the warp coil, and it gets them moving, but everyone feels the weight of the ship they left behind on their shoulders.

That night he sleeps uneasy, and for a moment he considers going to see Trip. Despite his order not to go anywhere near him, things have changed now. There was, and still is, nobody Malcolm trusts more than Trip on board the Enterprise. He’s come to the realisation now that he doesn’t hate Trip. He can’t.

Malcolm sighs, runs a hand over his face and kicks the blanket from his bed. No matter though, Trip hates him. He reaches for the light switch and then lies in darkness until sleep finds him. When it doesn’t, he pulls on the uniform that lies across his chair and slinks off to the armoury. At least there, he can do something.

* * *

In another part of ship, Trip has yet to change, sitting at his desk with his head in his hands while emotions overwhelm him. Archer’s organised a memorial ceremony for the fourteen dead crew members at 0900 hours tomorrow, and he ordered Trip to sleep for a while but there’s too much guilt in him to let him rest. Not that he’s been sleeping properly at all recently, he thinks.

He lifts his head and stares out of the window at the stars around him. He had been so excited to fly amongst them only a year ago, and he could spend hours just watching them pass and marvelling at the beauty of it all. Now though all it does is remind him of the crewmen who had been lost out there, those who would never go home again, whose families would feel forever shattered by their loss. It was bad enough that he had lost two of his own team in it all, but so soon after the destruction on Earth it seemed to magnify the loss. Seven million had just become seven million and eighteen.

His heart heavy, he sits up and stares at the pictures of Lizzie and his brothers on his desk until morning comes.

* * *

The memorial the next morning is hushed and sombre and everyone is still a mess. Malcolm keeps his eyes locked onto a spot ahead of him, because otherwise he’ll look for those they lost. He’ll look for his team, he’ll look for Sam but he won't find their faces. He won’t be able to look at the gaps of their crew, people he was duty bound to protect. People he failed.

It doesn’t look like anyone has got any rest, half of them wear dirty uniforms, some still bloody and bandaged as they stand in the cargo bay. Trip glances around, and takes a moment to pick out every face in the crowd. He sat trying to remember the faces of the crewmen they lost last night and it sickens him that he can’t.

There’s a lump in his throat the entire service, and it only tightens when Jon asks him to write a letter to Jane’s parents. He tries, repeatedly to start but there’s something sitting heavy in his chest, and he finds himself staring at the pictures of Lizzie again. He loses himself in work instead, telling himself he’ll write later. He fights with Phlox over sleep, and the doctor is one step away from manhandling him into bed before Trip gives in. He manages, with a little medicinal help, to get a few hours but Jane is there in his dreams too.

He wakes to a ruptured EPS conduit out on the hull. It feels, he thinks, like the days are blurring together now. There’s nothing unique in the days, they all bring destruction and despair. They’re just living from one disaster to the next. He finds Malcolm and they walk to the lockers in silence. Trip’s too exhausted and drained to keep up any of the fury that had splintered their friendship. Had none of this happened, had they had some more time before their lives caved in even more, maybe they could have patched things up. As he pulls on his EV suit he thinks that maybe they will.

He turns in a practiced movement to help Malcolm secure the oxygen tanks on his back, and tells himself that he will try to fix things between them. It’s the latest on a long list of things he needs to do.


	5. Chapter 5

Malcolm tries not to think much on the way Trip’s hands grab and pull at him as he does the final checks of his EV suit. He tries not to think much when he returns the favour, pushing the stupid fluttering of his heart out of his mind for now, focusing on the job that lies ahead. When they step out of the airlock onto the hull, heat is the first thing they know. Even meters away, and in the relative protection of their suits, it’s uncomfortably warm. It’s unnerving to have to switch the suits on their coolest setting in what should be the freezing expanse of space.

Trip gives him a grim smile as they set to work. Of course though, even now, their reputation as disaster magnets follows, and Malcolm finds himself trying to wrench open a rather uncooperative panel. Trip suggests a plasma torch, and while he agrees, Malcolm can’t help but reel at the idea of adding more heat. They don’t have the luxury of time to start looking for another solution though, so he pulls it from his case.

It’s hotter now already, hotter than hell. Sweat pools in all the worst places, it lines his forehead and runs down his face. His eyes sting with it drips from his brow and as he tries to guide his plasma torch along the panel  he has to blink it away. He hears Archer shouting at him, but they’re so close and there’s not enough time.

“Sorry sir, you’re breaking up,” he says, but fate obviously has it in for him, for as soon as the words leave his lips he feels his entire body convulse. When his heart beats, it’s as though he can feel it through his entire body, every part of him screaming for an escape. Like his own personal red alert, his body warns him he can’t take much more and his stomach heaves. He takes a steadying breath but the oxygen is warm and it dries out his mouth. His vision swims. A sharp pang of panic hits when he realises it may be too late for him to finish this job.

“Get inside Malcolm, I can finish!” Trip’s voice cuts through the haze like a knife and dimly he’s aware that Trip called him Malcolm, not Reed, for the first time in months. It only strengthens his resolve. If they don’t finish this, everyone dies. What’s one security officer against the lives of the entire crew?

“There’s no time,” he calls back. The angered huffing over the comm. tells him that Trip wants to disagree. He hopes Trip understands. “Do what you have to so I can shut this down,” he says, and Trip nods. Trip says something, he thinks, and there’s an order somewhere. Thinking is so hard, but he his promise to protect his crew keeps him upright.

He takes a few short sharp breaths before gathering his strength. He throws himself forward, grabs at the port handle and for a jarring second thinks his hand has slipped. Clumsy EV suited fingers grasp at the handle before he grabs it and yanks it into place. The relief as he hears the clunking of the ship responding below them is overwhelming. He feels his heart pounding, realsies his vision is almost entirely black and then he thinks he might be sick. Distantly he can hear Hoshi’s voice, shouting, but God is it hot in here. So very, very hot.

Across the way Trip sees Malcolm wobble - the EV suits make it hard to hide something like that. Congratulating Malcolm on a job well done he moves over, but Malcolm doesn’t respond. Trip goes to tell the lieutenant not to be so rude, that they’re grown men who can surely get past their issues for the sake of the ship. Only Malcolm isn’t ignoring him, he’s unconscious. Trip’s heart feels as though it’s dropped to the bottom of his gravity boots as he calls Phlox to the airlock.

Hauling Malcolm across the hull, his body floating in a hauntingly serene way makes Trip’s skin crawl. There is nothing natural in the way Malcolm’s body sits, face illuminated by the harsh white lights making him look paler than usual. What really unnerves Trip is the fact that he has seen Malcolm sleep and this is nothing like that. Malcolm sleeps light, he moves a lot. He talks in his sleep all the time, usually gibberish or else snores something terrible.

When he gets Malcolm into the airlock and gravity pulls them back down to the decking, he’s not even sure the lieutenant is breathing. He helps Phlox tear off as much of Malcolm’s suit as possible, feeling someone else’s hands start removing his own. He shrugs them off as someone hauls Malcolm onto the bench, pulling it off himself before racing to Malcolm's side. An awful, pained wheeze escapes the security officer as Archer pulls off the last of his suit. As Phlox runs a scanner over him, Malcolm sways.

It takes Phlox, Archer and a medic to pull Malcolm to his feet and they stagger from the room in such a rush that Trip is left watching them retreat before he knows what’s happened. Archer gives him a strained look and then Degra, who he hadn’t even noticed, speaks up.

“I hope he’ll be alright,” he says softly. It’s all that it takes though, to send Trip into a white hot rage. Talking or not, Malcolm is his friend, another one who might die at the hands of this man. His fists ball and he snaps. Archer’s already got a wary look in his eyes but he ignores whatever he’s saying. He rounds on the Xindi but Archer puts himself between them.

“I guess even Xindi have their limits,” he spits and then Archer’s in his face, pushing him back. 

“I said that’s enough!” he shouts, and Trip’s jaw clenches as he nods. “Aye sir,” he manages, as Archer and the Xindi leave. Still shaking with anger, Trip stares around the empty room, the desire to punch something making his palms itchy. He should probably leave before he breaks something important, but too late. The locker doors, it turns out, are a lot stronger than they look. When he lashes out at it, all he gets is a low thunk and a throbbing pain in his hand. Not quite Degra’s face, but it will do.

* * *

Malcolm think he’s in sickbay, maybe. He’s not entirely sure, but he think that’s Phlox’s voice in his ear. Telling him to stay awake. Maybe. Thinking is so hard. Hearing too, it’s too hot and he can’t hear anything over his own heartbeat.

There are hands on him now, pulling at him. He can’t see them but he can feel them, fingers clawing at his arms and pulling on his legs. Terror runs through him. Is this the end, maybe his demons finally catching up with him to drag him under. He tries to fight it, tries to kick out but the hands only hold him tighter. He tries to kick them from him, to wriggle out of their grasp, but they’re too strong.

Something heavy lands on his chest, something that despite the heat swelling in him, is cold. Cold and heavy it feels like it’s pushing him down, and he can’t breath, so he screams at the monsters to take it off. He’s drowning and it terrifies him. He doesn’t want to die, not really. 

* * *

Phlox steps back, and has to hold back the tears in his eyes. Of all the times Malcolm’s been hauled into his care this is the most awful. He’s been beaten and bruised, shot and scraped but nearly always feeling himself. Stripped to his underwear, restrained to the bed with cold towels wrapped around every inch of him and strapped up to an IV; this man is not lieutenant Reed. Cooked to nearly fifty degrees, he looks much more like a terrified, fever ridden boy. Phlox’s paternal instincts kick in anytime Malcolm arrives in sickbay, ad now more than ever he feels the need to wrap the younger man in cotton wool. 

He had been hallucinating when they brought him in, convinced something was trying to hurt him as they began cooling him. Even now, he was restless, half-yelling to be freed from some invisible monster. Once he was restrained to the bed and unable to hurt himself further, Phlox bid his medics goodnight; he could take it from here.

He stood watch over Malcolm that night, leaving once or twice to feed and water his menagerie, returning with new cloths to replace the ones warmed by Malcolm’s fever. Archer came by sometime later, glancing at Malcolm with the same strained look Phlox had. Though the age gap between them was much smaller, Phlox got the sense that Archer too had taken a somewhat fatherly approach to their troubled lieutenant.

“He’ll be alright Captain,” Phlox said quietly as he ran a towel across Malcolm’s forehead. Archer huffed quietly, stepping closer to offer his hands. The doctor pointed him towards the cooler full of ice packs.

“He needs to stop doing this,” Archer muttered as he swapped out the packs that were pressed under Malcolm’s arms. Phlox glanced over, but sensing the captain had more to say, kept quiet.

“I told him- I ordered him back. He ignored me,” he said, and though the words sounded angry, there was no anger in his voice. The cloth in Phlox’s hand came to rest at Malcolm’s cheek. He whimpered under it, then groaned and fell back into a fitful sleep.

“That seems rather unusual for Mr. Reed,” Phlox offered. Archer, finished with the ice packs, crossed his arms.

“That’s what worries me. It’s one thing being a self sacrificing idiot, but ignoring direct orders - from two senior officers?” In that moment, Archer looked older than Phlox had ever seen him.

“I know everybody’s changed since the attack… but Malcolm doesn’t even realise it...”

 

* * *

Trip comes by for a minute or so a while later, looking stormy eyed. Phlox reassures him that Malcolm’s temperature is nearly back to normal, and that there shouldn’t be any lasting effects. He nods and ducks out before Phlox can even ask about the blood on his knuckles.

Barely twenty minutes later, Malcolm is stirring in his bed. Phlox rushes over and unclasps the restraints, allowing the man to sit, slowly.

“Gave you a bit of trouble, did I?” he remarks wearily, eyeing them. Phlox chuckles and hopes it sounds normal as he works about removing the IV line.  

“No more than usual, lieutenant. How are you feeling?” Malcolm winces as the cannula is removed. Phlox hands him a small strip of bandage.

“A bit thirsty,” he says, as he pressed the gauze over the pinprick in a practiced movement. “But otherwise fine.” Phlox turns and finds the bottle of water he had called for and hands it to him.

“I want you to be drinking regularly over the next twenty fours hours, and that you have a full night’s sleep-”  Malcolm cuts him off with a sharp look.

“Am I cleared for duty?” Phlox sighs.

“Lieutenant is there any use telling you otherwise?” Malcolm throws him a grin and hops down from the bed, but he’s unsteady enough on his feet that Phlox has to catch his elbow to balance him. In a manner unusual for the Denobulan man, he keeps his hand wrapped tightly around Malcolm’s elbow. When Malcolm turns to question it, there’s an urgent look in the doctor’s blue eyes.

“Please, Mr. Reed, be careful. I ask as both your doctor and - I hope - your friend.”

Malcolm freezes for a moment, his eyes wide. Phlox wonders for a second if the man is going to say something, open up and talk. Then the shutters behind his eyes come down and he straightens himself.

“Of course doctor,” he says, and then turns from him, He pulls his uniform from where it lies draped across a chair and starts pulling it on. The doctor tries not to stare, but he cannot help notice how much weight Malcolm has lost, or the fact there are still bruises on his stomach and scrapes on his hands. He tries not to remember the long catalogue of scars he found while bathing the lieutenant, but he can’t help but wonder which are worse - the ones that look like they were made decades ago or the ones that can only be months old.

He busies himself with tidying the bed away, till Malcolm turns, fully dressed to thank him. He runs a hand through his hair, and then bids the doctor good evening, before slipping from the door.

Phlox stands in an empty sickbay and for the first time in a long time feels a pang of homesickness.

* * *

They manage to hobble alone somewhat after their brush with the Xindi. The ship is still in bad shape and it requires everyone to step into overdrive. Trip tries to find time to corner Malcolm and have a long needed chat, but it seems as though the lieutenant is avoiding him on purpose. exasperating though it is, he finds that he has less and less time to hunt him down, especially when they then bump into another, much older Enterprise.

Something, he isn’t sure what, feels wrong when he meets Lorian, a strange feeling of loss perhaps. Maybe it’s knowing that he and T’Pol could work out, or knowing that he would, in one timeline or another, become a father. Maybe it was knowing that if they continued down this line, he would wind up dead so soon after his son is born.

Or perhaps, he thinks as he glances down at the PADD in his hand that holds the history of the alternate Enterprise, it’s the fact that Malcolm dies fifteen years before him. That’s it, he thinks as his eyes skim over the report once again.

_ ‘-to report that Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was killed while serving-’  _ Just like that, one sentence in over century worth of history. He was sure there had to be personal logs from the time, but the thought of reading them made his stomach turn. Most every other member of the crew lived out their lives until retirement, letting their children and grandchildren take their places. Malcolm, as far as he’s aware, never married, let alone had children.

He throws the PADD into a drawer and storms from his room, determined to make sure that is not the future that lies ahead.

* * *

Malcolm sits and looks over the same reports. He reads with a muted kind of acceptance, not particularly surprised by his prophesied death. What’s more important, he thinks is the safety of the ship. If nothing else meeting this older Enterprise has given them a tactical advantage. As security chief it is his obligation to find out as much as he can, in the event that all goes to shit and they share the other ship’s fate. He may only have what, thirteen years left? He may as well make them count.

As he picks his way through the data, he can’t help but keep a mental tally of his crewmates. Dates flick by of birthdays and weddings, births and eventually deaths. It doesn’t escape him that his own name seldom makes an appearance. Trip’s does though, often, especially amongst Phlox’s notes. After he and T’Pol were married they spent years trying to conceive. For some reason, Malcolm finds himself hating Lorian. Still, his are the records most precisely kept, so he continues to sift through them.

He’s only roused from his reading by the growling of his stomach. Sliding the PADDs back into his drawer, he stretches his back before heading for the makeshift mess hall they constructed on C deck. He grabs a tray and something light before searching for somewhere to sit. There’s not exactly a lot of space, but Travis and Hoshi have snatched up a table that still has some space on it, and he feels as though of all the ensigns, he knows them best.

“Is this taken?” he asks, gesturing with his tray. They invite him to join of course, but Hoshi has a glint in her eye. She smiles playfully at him.

“So, Lieutenant, who’d you end up with?” He knows what she means of course, but plays dumb. Maybe they can avoid this altogether. No such luck though, Hoshi prompts him further.

“On the other  _ Enterprise?  _ Did you get married, have kids?”

He errs for a moment. “... no, actually, I didn’t.” He regrets the words instantly, they sound far too rude and rough. He stares at his dinner instead, hands dithering over his cutlery. Neither of his dinner guests say anything, but he can feels their stares burning into his skin.

“Apparently the Reed family line came to a rather-” he searches for the right words. How do you say ‘I died in a stupid accident’ nicely. “- unceremonious end,” he settles on. He huffs.

“You’d think on a ship this size, I would’ve been able to find someone, but…” he trails off. Admitting that he only served another thirteen years before popping his clogs seems a bit of a downer. Travis and Hoshi share a glance, and Malcolm wonders if they maybe already knew. Hoshi starts to say something about crew ratios and bachelors and he nods.

“And it would appear I’m going to be one of them,” he says with a frown. Travis gives Hoshi another long look, and then suddenly pipes up.

“I’m on duty in a few minutes.” Funny, that, Malcolm thinks. Then Hoshi remembers so is she. What a coincidence, says the nasty, cynical voice in his head. When Hoshi bids him goodbye, there’s an awful look of pity in her eyes. He nods, tries to responds but he barely gets a ‘yeah’ out, before they’re both gone, fast enough to leave warp trails. He sits alone for a moment, staring at the dish on his plate, suddenly not as hungry as he had been.

The doors behind him open with a swoosh and an ensign steps in, looking around for somewhere to sit. Of course, she avoids looking at her sad senior officer, eating alone, so he stands and offers the seat to her. Maybe he’ll try dinner in his quarters.

* * *

He feels no sadness at the apparent disappearance of Lorien and the other  _ Enterprise.  _ All that ship had done for him was make his job that much harder and confirmed the fact he was going to die alone.

* * *

Though he’s busy, Trip finds his mind wandering to Malcolm sometimes. While they make repairs to the ship and he goes for days without seeing the other man, he still thinks of him. He never asked after him when they returned the hull a few days ago, never asked him about his alternate life on the other ship. The promise to patch things up between them keeps snapping at his heels, but it seems as though it’s one thing after the other now. Just as they think they might have gotten around to more of the Xindi, suddenly Degra’s dead and Hoshi’s missing and that pushes every other thought from every mind. It all becomes on race against time to intercept the weapon set to destroy their homeworld and he thinks that maybe, if they manage to succeed, he and Malcolm can sort it out then. 

* * *

Malcolm finds himself having to explain to Hayes how one of his men died. Has to explain his failure. He watches the MACO’s face twist into a grimace before he schools it into something stoic. There’s a lump in Malcolm’s throat as Hayes asks for a report, and for a moment he he wishes he could reach out for him. But the major's’ eyes are stormy, full of tears, so he lets him be.

When he returns to the armoury a few hours later to hand him the report, he finds himself standing maybe a little closer than usual to Hayes. He asks if there’s a problem between them, and then he says it - Hayes blames him for Hawkin’s death. Of course he does, no matter the way he talks around it. Malcolm fixes him with a long stare. He works his jaw as he tries to sort the thoughts in his mind. The now gentle look in Hayes is a dangerous opportunity, because now he can voice some of those thoughts. Yet Hayes seems to have an answer for each of his worries.

Hayes believes he did everything he could, Hayes believes that they have broken down the walls between them; Hayes looks him in the eyes and tells him he feels as much a part of the crew than any of the Starfleet officers. That sends an unexpected wave of emotions through Malcolm, one that had they more time, he may have delved further. As it stands, they both have work to do, so he nods and leaves without another word. There’ll be time to talk later, he thinks.

Then the boarding party return, the Xindi disappear, and then there’s a com. at his station, privately from Phlox.

_ Sickbay, now. _

Somehow, he knows it isn’t Hoshi he’s been called for. Almost instantly his eyes are drawn to Hayes, and the gaping hole in his chest. Phlox’s face is dark, and Malcolm can already tell there’s little to be done.

“I told him I was ready for duty,” the Hayes says, smiling at him. The same smile he gave him as he left his quarters last Christmas. Malcolm tries to play along.

“I’m afraid he’s a bit of a mother hen,” he says in the most offhand way he can. The stupid pretending wears out fast though, and he moves closer. Hayes asks after Hoshi, and Phlox quietly adds that she seems to be doing well. Malcolm reaches out and slides a hand into Hayes’.

“Thank you for bringing her home,” he all but whispers. As the MACO takes shaky breaths, trying to give some useful last words, Malcolm is hit with a flash of images. Sudden visions of what could have been. A relationship that maybe didn’t have the best of starts, but one that now had Hayes looking up as if Malcolm was the only man he trusted.

He realises if maybe, given time, he might have loved Hayes, and because it looks like he was loved in return. His own words almost catch in his throat.

“No more of that talk,” he says, leaning down. Their noses touch. He’s distantly aware of Phlox moving back, giving them some semblance of privacy.

“That’s an order,” he finishes, and then Hayes reaches up and snatches a kiss, before falling back onto the bed in a fit of tremors.

Malcolm’s pushed out of the way as screeching machines announce to the galaxy that major Joseph Hayes has died. He takes one last glance at the body on the bed, then storms from sickbay before anyone can say another word. When he reports to the MACO’s back in the armoury some minutes later, he hopes that the red around his eyes might be mistaken for fatigue.

They don’t have time, none of them have time. Across the ship tensions are pulled tight and neither Trip nor Malcolm spare the other much thought as the time of reckoning speeds towards. The feeling of finality is almost overwhelming, as though everyone knows they’re about to reach the penultimate chapter. These are the last minutes before everything goes to shit, and the end might just destroy them completely. Malcolm wonders numbly if he might die today, go the same way as Hayes. He shakes his head. There’s no time to mourn anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you're interested, my other story In Another Life was written as an aside to this, I wrote it and realised it didn't work in this fic, but if you want the Expanded Edition™ of E2 Malcolm's life and death, feel free to go read that!)


	6. Chapter 6

When it comes to destroying the weapon they’ve found, and there’s a chance, a possibility that they could maybe, just maybe, stop this nightmare, it becomes surreal. Malcolm doesn’t remember exactly when he got here, but now he’s bent over a console on an alien ship, watching Archer talk with ash on his face and tired lines at his eyes. He says he has no plans of dying on the weapon and that sticks with Malcolm until they’re aboard the sphere and they’re running out of time. Archer asks for the charges Malcolm has stuffed in his pockets. Malcolm looks down at the rifle in his hands and shakes his head. 

Archer orders him to hand them over. Malcolm’s fingers tighten around the gun ever so slightly, Hoshi tenses and Archer glares at him.

“Lieutenant, give me the damn charges,” he says and Malcolm’s jaw clenches.

“No captain.” Archer steps forward, so Malcolm raises the rifle and levels it with the captain’s heart. It should be telling that there’s no feeling in him at the thought of shooting his captain, oh how he’s changed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Malcolm? We don’t have time to waste, hand them over-” he reaches over as if to grab them and Malcolm steps backwards. There’s fury in Archer’s eyes, burning bright and for a second Malcolm is jealous. He isn’t sure he’s felt that much in months.

Then with one quick sharp motion, Malcolm swings the gun out and whacks Archer across the face. He staggers sideways, but in the cramped space there wasn’t enough room for enough of a punch, and he’s still standing. Malcolm hoists the gun further up instead.

“Hoshi, the captain seems a bit dazed, maybe you should help him to the top tier.” He says, and Archer tries to look threatening, but there’s blood already trickling from a cut on his forehead.

“What are you doing?” Hoshi whispers as she reaches for Archer’s arm. Malcolm let's his eyes dart to her, but keeps his hand steady on the gun.

“Enterprise can do without a security officer, but she needs her captain,” he says, before turning tail and making his way closer to the heart of the weapon. He can hear Archer bellow his name and Hoshi’s cajoling but he tunes it out. Once he’s far enough away Archer will have no choice but to escape.

He runs, hands in his pockets pulling the charges out ready to prep the explosion. As he begins to place them, he almost laughs at himself. He supposes, with his reputation, that going out with a bang is exactly how he should go. It’s almost exciting, he thinks as the second to last charge is set into place. He has only to climb down and set the final one, and he’s done. Maybe, if he runs fast enough he might make it back in one piece, just in time for Archer to throw him in the brig.

Then something slams into him, a someone he realises, who has their hands at his throat. While he fights off the attacker, he realises it’s that bastard Dolim, the monster behind all this. He feels no sorrow then, feels nothing at all as he draws the Xindi towards the edge of the platform, wrestles him to the end and plants the final charge on him. He cannot even feel pleasure as he kicks the bastard off the platform, and watches him fall into the depths of the weapon. He just hopes, as he stands and watches, that they made it in time to stop the weapon.

He feels the heat before he can see any flames, and he glances upwards, whispers an empty prayer and let's the world cave in around him.

* * *

Aboard Enterprise, Hoshi and Archer stagger from the transporter pads, and Archer marches straight for the bridge. He makes it up in time to hear T’Pol shouting orders across to Malcolm. He watches, anger curling in his chest as the entire weapon is blown to smithereens and everything goes white for a moment.

* * *

Malcolm eventually finds himself on the sofa of a kindly young woman, the rest of the crew thousands of miles above them, all of them hundreds of years out of their time. Sitting there while Alicia helps tend to his broken ribs and bloody arms, Malcolm marvels at the strangeness of it all, wonders if this is the farthest he’s ever been from home. Despite it being Earth, nothing here is familiar. There’s a sudden longing, he realises, for home. It may not have been the warmest place, he will admit, he was never particularly close to his father or mother, and he argued with Maddie to no end when they were children. Yet they had a good life, his mother and father worked hard to ensure the two of them were well educated and provided for. Only now was regret creeping in that as soon as his eighteenth birthday rolled around, he had run off to America.

It might be too late, he thought, aged almost forty to go crawling back, but Malcolm decides there and then that if he makes his way out of this century and back into the right timeline, he will go visit them. Maybe stay for a while. That might be nice.

When he finally gets back to Enterprise, Malcolm is hurried off to Phlox who tuts over him while Archer goes on to be the hero of the story. Malcolm scoffs as he realises he didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye to Alicia, but of course, this is the way it must be. Archer knows best and has swanned off to rescue Trip and Travis without so much as a passing glance at Malcolm. No time to dwell, he thinks to himself though as he slips from sickbay when Phlox isn’t looking. He steps quietly onto the bridge and waves the Ensign at his post away, who at least looks glad to see him. Hoshi glances over and sends him a strained smile, before her eyes flick back to the viewscreen. 

T’Pol, sitting in the captain’s chair doesn't even acknowledge his presence.

He requests a fortnight's leave when they return home. Trip doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves a few days earlier to visit Vulcan with T’Pol. Malcolm politely declines Travis’ offer to hit up every bar in San Francisco. He visits home, walking familiar London roads and surprises Maddie with lunch. She drags him home for dinner, they arrive unexpected and Mary Reed flings her arms around her son while Stuart stares on with oddly glassy eyes.

At the end of the week, Malcolm sends off his resignation.

* * *

Jonathan Archer leaves his debriefing in a state of some kind of shock. Soval had actually complimented him,  _ thanked  _ him for all of his work. It leaves him somewhat bemused but in good spirits. He’s had a well deserved holiday, caught up with old friends and he just got complimented by the ambassador - very little could dampen his mood. Then he strides into what serves as his office at Starfleet HQ and spots the PADD on his desk. Curious, he throws himself into his chair as he picks it up, absently running a hand over his chin as he opens the only document on it. 

He reads it. Then rereads it. He turns the PADD off and on again and reopens it in the hopes it was just malfunctioning. Then he throws it on the table and drops his head into his hands. Looks like he’s going to have to start crew evaluations early.

* * *

Trip stands in front of a mirror, wearing old robes that smell like spice. He tugs at them, trying to get comfortable in something he feels he has no right to wear. T’Pol asked him too though, and he felt obliged to agree. T’Les appears behind him, and then she starts asking questions, asks if he really loves her daughter. Something knots in Trip’s stomach. He doesn’t think he ever loved T’Pol, not really. Sleeping with her was a mistake, for both of them and they know it, and everything since then feels as though he’s been dropped in the deep end with no warning. He hasn’t had time alone since he got here enough to untangle the mess of feelings that feel like they’re tearing him apart.

T’Les asks him to be honest with T’Pol. He scoffs. He needs to be honest with himself first. He doesn’t love T’Pol, not really. She doesn’t love him either. As he watches her marry her betrothed, he knows she doesn’t love Koss either. How unfair it is, that none of them are happy.

He packs away his things later than evening and it’s only then he finds the watch in the bottom of his bag. It’s a subtle thing, black leather strap and a plain white face, not quite his size. He turns it back and forth and then realises it’s Malcolm’s. Probably leftover from the time they spent last shore leave, a night so long ago before everything went so wrong. They had slung all their clothes into one bag, rented a room on whatever planet shore leave was on that month, and spent hours just lying together. Malcolm had worn the watch out to dinner.

Something inside of Trip breaks, the rope that had been keeping his shoulders straight and his head up has suddenly snapped. He drops onto the bed, tears in his eyes and realises with a trembling breath that it was never T’Pol, it was always him. Malcolm.

* * *

Malcolm sits in his father’s study, somehow still feeling too small to sit in the tall backed chair he was never allowed on. Now though, his father has lent him use of the room while he searches for something new to do. There are papers and PADDS littering the desk, cover letters and job applications circled in red. He realises it wasn’t the work or the travel that had made life aboard  _ Enterprise _ so unbearable; it was the ship itself. He was stuck there, four years in and still a lieutenant, on a ship where it was clear his work was often dismissed as paranoid rantings. He still loved his weapons, loved exploring, he still had a drive to create faster, better and more effective defense mechanisms. Just not aboard that ship.

So he looked for other work, on another ship maybe, or at HQ in R&D. He could find somewhere on Jupiter Station where his qualifications may come in use. Hell, if he wanted to work at it for a year or so, he could be teaching at the academy. He considered looking into old jobs. He had never fully left his last position, the scar that ran along the back of his arm reminded him of that.

He reaches his left hand to rub absently at the spot on his forearm as he thinks. Something familiar but altogether new, a job that was never dull, always exciting. Just the kind of reckless work he needs.

He digs through papers until he finds the scrap he’s looking for. It has only a number and a name written on it. Harris.

* * *

Trip’s shuttlepod back to Enterprise is quiet, he sits alone save for the crewman piloting. She looks tired, and seems glad for the silence. She must have run this journey at least twenty times already. Trip keeps his head down, opening up the latest reports from the engineering crew at Jupiter Station. They seem to have taken care of his baby, but he’ll only feel comfortable once he’s made those scans for himself.

There’s been a shift in his mood lately, ever since he left Vulcan. He still feels a jumbled mess of guilt and remorse for T’Pol, for ever sleeping with her to begin with, to letting her marry someone she obviously felt nothing for, for being a shit friend and not helping her, ever. For being so blindly stupid as to assume that infamous Vulcan front meant that everything was going just fine.

His heart still breaks for his sister, there’s not a day goes by that he doesn’t think about her: her voice, her laugh, her tall tales. Her letters and calls, her annoying habit of making him laugh even when he was mad, the way she always knew exactly what to say. Every thought of her brings an onslaught of rage and the most hollow kind of sadness. People keep saying it gets easier, but it doesn’t feel like it is. Maybe one day he’ll be able to move on but right now it feels impossible.

Then there’s a bitter kind of guilt, and that makes his throat tight. Knowing he let whatever that bond had been with Malcolm fall apart. Watching Malcolm retreat back into his close knit walls, and at the time taking a sick pleasure in it.

It feels, Trip thinks as the shuttlepod begins docking, as though he needs a new start.

* * *

“What do you mean, gone?!”

Jon shoves the PADD into his hand, jaw set. “Exactly that, Trip. He’s gone. I’ve got three days to find a new security officer-”

“Screw your security officer Jon! I’ve gotta find my friend-” Jon catches his arm and forces him to look him in the eye.

“You don’t think I’ve tried already?” he asks, and for a moment Jon’s face shows every one of his forty something years. “His family won’t talk, Starfleet won’t talk, I have  _ tried  _ Trip. He’s the best damn officer tactical officer a ship could have, you think I’d give that up without a fight?”

“I have to try,” Trip says finally. “God, Jon he’s- I have to tell him…”

But they don’t have time, because at that moment something on Archer’s desk pings. Two humans killed the entire crew of a Bird of Prey, or something, Trip doesn’t quite catch it the first time as Archer marches him from the room. The hope of finding Malcolm and setting things right is left in their warp trails as they shoot from dock before the new paint has even fully dried.

* * *

Harris’ face flickers across the screen for a second, a slightly weak connection, swamped in layers of data streams to make the connection secure. The man smirks at him, and for a second Malcolm wants to recoil.

“Back for more so soon?” His previous CO asks. Malcolm’s eyes dart away from the screen for a moment before he takes a deep breath.

“Yes.” Harris makes a small humming noise and glances at his own desk.

“You’re no longer serving under Archer, are you?” He asks with an annoyingly smug look on his face. Malcolm considers lying, but Harris could probably confirm it within seconds. He’s like that - many fingers in many pies.

“No, not anymore. I was under the impression I was… still under the employ of your department though.” Doubts are already flickering in Malcolm’s chest, almost in time with the flickering com link, as though each one is sign, the universe trying to tell him something.

Harris barks out a laugh.

“Of course Reed, you’re always welcome here. A shame though, we had a spot opening up aboard Enterprise,” at that, Malcolm’s throat closes up. Harris’ next words feel like lead in his stomach.

“I’m sure we’ll find someone else to take the job. That Tucker has all the makings of a good operative, wouldn’t you say?” Malcolm bites back the grimace, his face betraying none of the fury in his heart.

Apparently realising he isn’t getting a rise from Malcolm, Harris shrugs.

“Well, for now there aren’t that many positions in need of filling, and I am afraid Reed, your face is far too well known to do half of them. There’s always lookout work though,” he says and that damn smirk is back.

Malcolm is far too overqualified for scout work, but Harris has a point. His days of going deep undercover are gone.

As Harris gives him the barest details of the position, Malcolm realises he cannot refuse it now. Even if he wanted to take up the R&D job now, Harris has dug his claws back into him already.

So he settles for the job, a somewhat secretive position at Jupiter Station, officially there as newest head of security and mentor to the MACO department, after injury aboard Enterprise pulled him off the front line. A weak heart, the medical note said. Harris’ idea of a joke probably.

His less than official duties are as messenger boy more than anything. Rendezvous with section members travelling through the area, keeping an eye on the loose operatives, that type of thing. Easy work. Not at all dangerous work. Boring work.

Yet as he disconnects the comm. he realises none of that matters. As long as he’s away from Trip.


	7. Chapter 7

Eight months is an awfully long time. Malcolm’s hand curls under his chin as he reads the news report scrolling across his screen as he sits at his desk. Below the raised platform he sits at are this months newest band of MACO recruits, sparring on the mats in relative silence. The only sounds are the squeaks of boots on training mats and the occasional grunt or growl. They learn pretty quickly how the lieutenant runs his training sessions aboard the floating station - short and sharp. From his perch above them, he’ll watch them from the corner of his eye, often while writing up security details, yet still he somehow manages to spot when you slip. He’ll bark out a name, a correction and then go back to his work.

Not today though. He’s distracted, which is incredibly unusual. Cadet Enns has taken two punches already, and lets himself take another before Reed’s eyes glance upwards at the sound of it.

“Enns, pull up more,” he snaps, eyes already back on the PADD in his hand. The cadet in question shrugs at his partner, before swinging his arms up to deflect another hit. The session continues in silence until a trill over the comm. lets them know the work day has ended. As they make their way to the lockers, Enns picks Jakes out of the crowd and slides up next to her.

“What d’you think’s up with the lieutenant?” he asks, pulling his boots from his locker. His roommate and best friend glances around secretively before responding in a hushed whisper.

“Isn’t the  _ Enterprise _ headed back to Earth?” She ducks her head down as Reed brushes past them, and even Enns holds his breath. Jakes exhales slowly. “That big coalition meeting, the whole crew’s gonna be there.” She tugs her bag over her shoulder as the two of them head for the door.

“Think Reed got an invite?”

* * *

He did get an invite. It’s sitting in his inbox, glaring at him, each pointed letter on the screen a sharp scratch at his weakening defences. Officially he left on civil terms, so of course he’d be invited. He’s expected to throw on his uniform again, slick back his hair and be presentable. Since moving onto the station, it’s been easier to blend in with the darker colours of the MACO’s, black tops and dark trousers. He’s forgotten on numerous occasions his appointments with the barber on the recreation deck, enough that his hair falls forward now, though not long enough he’s noticed yet. With no Trip dragging him to lunch everyday, and too much spare time spent in the gym of an evening, he’s lost a little weight. Nothing too noticeable but only last month he had to dig around for the one belt he had somewhere in his wardrobe.

Finding himself lost in thought once again, Malcolm shakes his head and closes the email. Maybe he’ll respond later. The dull ache in his stomach reminds him he has yet to eat, and the guilty voice in his head reminds him he has an appointment to keep. A different voice calls it a date, but he doesn’t know what to make of it, so  instead runs a hand through his hair and picks a jacket up from the back of his chair. Shoving his hands through the arms and then roughly into his pockets, he heads for the recreation deck.

He had, at first, eaten at a few of the cafeteria’s on the station, until he found one small cafe that served a decent roast each weekend, and a few dishes that reminded him somewhat of home. He discovered one night that the chef - one Leo Blythe - who ran the place was from London. Malcolm complimented his talent with pastry one night, Leo had thanked him and asked if he was the Lieutenant Reed of Enterprise fame, and  before either man knew it they were sitting in the back of the cafe past closing, a beer in hand as they bemoaned the plight of Brits in space.

“At least  _ you  _ didn’t have to go through Starfleet-” Malcolm had grumbled as he took one last swig from his bottle. “I had to spend seven fucking years in San Francisco! Fucking Americans,” he sighed. Leo grimaced in sympathy.

“Went home  _ once  _ the whole time,” he huffed, dropping his bottle onto the table. Leo swung an arm across his shoulder.

“Shit, that’s rough. Did you miss your family?” he asked, and Malcolm scoffed. “They mostly hated the idea of me going into Starfleet. No... went back to see my sister graduate, but I didn’t stay long. Had too much ‘important work’ to do.” He pulled a face then turned to face his newfound friend. He realised distantly that their faces were far too close, but that didn’t seem to matter right then. Then he said

“Let’s not talk about work,” and suddenly there were lips on his, hands on his chest, wrapped around his neck - and Malcolm let him, encouraged him, responded to him. Something about the way Leo’s teeth caught on his lip, or maybe it was the dirty look in those vivid blue eyes, or the fact his dirty blonde hair was just long enough to curl at his neck. Something made him kiss back. Something lead him to Leo’s room and into his bed and something else made him cry Trip’s name as kisses dipped lower.

Leo glanced up at the sound and Malcolm found himself unable to look him in the eye. A low chuckle as hands brushed his thighs.

“We’ve all been there,” he said, continuing his exploration of Malcolm’s lower half with his mouth. When he was done, Malcolm returned the gesture, and then they rolled over and fell asleep tangled in each other's arms and neither one of them mentioned the slip of the tongue again. Not the next night when Malcolm returned to the cafe, nor the next week when Leo was waiting for him to get off duty in the locker room. Not even weeks later when they were sitting together in Leo’s room again, fully clothed and overfed, watching the latest action thriller from Earth.

In fact they didn’t mention Trip, or anything else about Enterprise again. They talked of course, about work or their lives, music or books. Maybe once they spoke about the two of them, Leo pressing a kiss to Malcolm’s temple after a long silence.

“What are we?” he asked. Malcolm’s gut had clenched, his chest hollowed and panic flooded him. He wrapped his arms tighter around Leo’s waist. “I’m not sure,” he replied. All he knew was he had found something, some _ one  _ who kept him grounded, his link to reality. The moment felt too fragile, as though any real answer might shatter the strange relationship they had formed. Then Leo had nodded.

“I like it,” he said. Then Malcolm nodded too.

* * *

Stepping through bustling walkways and crowded corridors, the question came back to him. What were they? He guessed anyone else would call them boyfriends, but that didn’t feel right. As awful as it might sound, while he liked Leo, certainly enough to lie with the man in more way than one, he wasn’t sure he loved him. He wasn’t even sure they were friends. Just two men who shared some stories, craved company, intimacy.

A stab of guilt found its way to his chest at him as it reminded him of another relationship, another man. Had that been nothing more than an intoxicating mix of sad stories, long drinks and lingering glances?

He jabs at the panel beside the door with slightly more force than necessary and Leo’s voice calls back to him to come in. He’s just standing as Malcolm ducks through the door, turning to face him, illuminated by the light from outside. Leo’s living room is dark, bar the screen in the far corner that’s a frozen screenshot of a movie. As the light cuts across his face, Malcolm is reassured once again Leo is nothing like Trip. The similarities might go as far as the same shade of blonde hair, because in the light Leo’s eyes are more green flecked than Trip’s, his nose less curved and definitely broken once or twice. He has freckles under his eyes, and is a few inches taller. He wears shirts with stupid slogans on them, only owns odd socks. When he speaks it’s much quieter, when he laughs it’s much louder. When Leo drinks, he doesn’t get all flirty and growly like Trip, he starts dancing or singing, he drags Malcolm up and makes him dance until the room is spinning.

Leo is different, new, exciting.

Something flickers in Malcolm’s chest. His lips find themselves curling into a smile as Leo’s hand wraps around his and they fall onto the sofa together. He knows barely anything about the man with whose legs are sprawled over his, but maybe his next adventure is finding out.

A week before the ceremony and Malcolm still hasn’t responded. He stands in his room, staring out of the window at the stars. He still isn’t quite used to them looking much the same every day, not after years aboard Enterprise. The ship is due to pass them anytime today, on it’s return to Earth. It’s making his chest ache thinking about it. There’s rustling behind him, and he throws a look over his shoulder to watch Leo extract himself from the sheets, hair an unruly mess of frizz. He wanders over, shivering in his thin t-shirt.

“Morning,” he says, coming to stand beside Malcolm. Malcolm nods back. “Sleep well?” Leo nods, running a fist over his eyes.

“Pretty well, could do with a bit longer though,” he pulls a face then laughs. “Why I took another breakfast shift I don’t know.” He leans over and runs a hand over Malcolm’s shoulder.

“I wanted to watch Enterprise go by with you,” he said quietly. He gave a small chuckle. “If they dock for while, you could show me where you used to work. Let me see those guns Mr. Reed.” Malcolm raises an eyebrow but there’s a smirk on his lips.

“I’m not sure you’ve got clearance to see those guns Mr. Blythe.” Leo sighs mournfully. 

“Guess I’ll have to stick with these then?” His hand trails down his shoulder to give his biceps a squeeze. Malcolm snorts, and then Leo laughs until Malcolm prods him in the chest.

“Don’t you have a kitchen to be running?” Leo shrugs as he lopes towards the bathroom. “Dinner tonight? My place?” Malcolm nods, finally turning from the window. He’s on duty in an hour, and if he’s lucky Leo might leave some hot water for his shower.

* * *

Halfway through his shift, everyone's plans are thrown out the airlock. The floor beneath them in the gym judders and they’re plunged into darkness. Within seconds, emergency lighting flickers on and everything in the station floods an eerie red. He watches his small crew of MACOs as they drop their gloves and wait for their orders, not a bit of panic on any of their faces. Hayes would be proud, he thinks, then locks that thought away before it can go any further. Sliding from behind his desk, he stands and crosses to them comm. on the wall. That’s down too and it sets of the alarm bells in his head. Motioning silently for the group to split up, he leads the way from the room.

The group head silent as anything, towards the command room, four decks above, though Malcolm stops to collect a phase pistol along the way. When they come to a split in the corridor, he sends of four of his best to the right. Both paths eventually reunite outside the central hub of the station, but on the off chance there’s an enemy on either route, this doubles their chance of getting there. He grimly praises himself not a minute later because it’s his own path that finds them face to face with the intruders.

Short, lilac skinned humanoids, two of them stand up ahead, too absorbed in whatever they’re doing to the control panel to notice the five people silently stalking closer. One could almost have called them beautiful, with their soft curves and flowing clothes in all kinds of deep blues. Then one of them pulls something from the folds in their clothes and presses it against the panel on the wall. Before they can lay another delicate finger on it, Malcolm has stunned him, and in the same instant Enns has taken out the other intruder.

Both fall to the floor with an unsettling grace, and Malcolm can’t help glancing down at them as he steps over their prone form. They have soft features too, round cheeks and small wisps of hair that curl around their chins. He wonders where they’re from, what their planet looks like, how far from home they are. Then he shakes those thoughts from his head. Those are the thoughts of an explorer, something he hasn’t been for a long time.

He pushes forwards, thoughts of a MACO in his head. He stares at the device on the wall but the alien script is, well, alien to him. He could barely read Vulcan, let alone decipher something completely new. He could do with Hoshi right about now. Something seems odd about the device though, and he curses himself for not having brought a scanner with him. One icon keeps changing, the lines shifting to depict something new every four seconds or so.

While his team fan out behind him, waiting for orders, he realises it’s a countdown. He has enough time to yell a warning, push some of them back before the hall in front of them explodes in a brilliant white light. Time seems to shatter, the seconds dragging on as the light speeds towards them. He feels the warmth before he sees the flames, but it all seems to happen in such clarity. He can see the lavender aliens being fung to the side, two of his MACOs thrown against the wall. He is shot backwards, thrown into a bulkhead with enough strength to crack his head and send his eyes rolling back in his head. When the ringing stops and he can feel his hands again, he lets one run up the back of his head and grimaces at the blood he finds there. Probably a concussion, but he doesn’t have the time to worry about that.

He hauls himself up, shouts for his crew but if they respond, he can’t hear. It feels like he’s underwater, sound muffled and distant, and it doesn’t help any that the sensation sets his heart thudding. He bites down on the panic though, because he has to move forward, there are intruders aboard and now he  _ knows  _ they’re hostile. Distantly he can hear the comm. shouting something, and maybe he catches the word enterprise in their somewhere, but maybe that’s just his imagination. Fuck, his head is killing him.

Realising that his men aren’t moving, Malcolm backtracks to the intersection, murmuring a few words for them both in his head. It doesn’t take long to loop around the other side. He braces himself for what he might find. As he nears the turbolift that marks the centre of the station, his hopes almost being to rise. Then he stumbles across the body of Jakes, and then Connors - then three of the aliens too. Movement catches his eye and his pistol is shoved in the direction of it, and he finds it resting between the eyes of Jensen.

The young man looks up, wide eyed and panting and for a moment Malcolm feels every one of his thirty eight years. The MACO is far too young to be lying in a puddle of his own blood like this, but thank god it doesn’t look like much.

“Where are the others?” Malcolm says but he thinks he might have yelled it. Jensen points upwards. Giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, he nods.

“Can you hold out for medics?” he asks and Jensen nods his head, a worn out smile on his lips. He turns to get into the lift and as he steps in he thinks Jensen might have called out to him, but there’s a throbbing in his head that’s not helping this temporary deafness. Nor’s the shooting pain in his gut, that’s a recent development. As the lift creaks its way to the command center, he presses a fist against the aching in his abdomen, then yells. That fucking hurt. His hand comes back covered in more blood, and when he looks down he can see the hole the explosion has punched in his side. It explains the sudden dizziness at least.

The lift seems that little bit darker now, reality that one step further away. How everything managed to go so bad so quickly, he isn’t sure. None of that matters though, the station is under attack. As the doors slide open, Malcolm sways slightly, before stumbling out into the main center. It’s a lot like the bridge only everything faces inwards, control panels in a circle rather than a crescent. A circle Malcolm’s just stumbled into, and drawn every eye in the room to himself. Starfleet, alien and -  _ is that Captain Archer?  _ \-  MACO, they all snap to face him. He proves distraction enough, because there’s a few sudden bursts and their alien intruders are all on the floor.

A crewman scrambles for a console as the bodies on the floor begin to shimmer, and as they vanish she shouts that a vessel has moved off at warp six. Already there are people snapping back into action, medics being dispatched, extra security to check the invaders are gone, but none of it is really getting through to Malcolm. He’s too distracted by the figure in the corner, the one wiping a hand over his face and throwing Archer (because yes, that  _ is  _ Archer) a wry smile. Maybe he groans or something because those eyes slide past Archer onto Malcolm.

It’s Trip, it’s him, he’s here on Jupiter Station, and so is the captain for some reason, and Malcolm’s bleeding and his head is killing him, and somehow the floor is a lot closer than it was a minute ago. There’s a lot of blood, but then there are hands, strong and over-worked hands at his side, and there are more at his head, and someone is shouting, but all Malcolm can see, all that matters in this moment as he feels like his very life is slipping from his fingers, are those eyes. Trip’s eyes.

Suddenly Malcolm feels more at home than he has in a long time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning here for descriptions of panic attacks

Trip’s eyes flick up from the bed when he hears footsteps. At first he thinks it’s Jon, come to convince him to go to bed. It’s been hours since they arrived at the station, passing by on their way back to Earth when the mayday had them doubling back on themselves. They managed to get most of security across from  _ Enterprise  _ to help defend the station, and it had sent the intruders packing. Hoshi and T’Pol had been working with the science officers aboard to track their attackers but so far their best bet was a band of hi tech thieves. 

It didn’t matter though, none of it did, it had stopped mattering the minute Malcolm had stepped out of that lift and landed straight on his knees, gut spilled open and mouth full of blood. Stupid idiot walked  _ into  _ the path of a bomb didn’t he? The list of injuries went on so long Phlox had just shaken his head and gave Malcolm’s shoulder - the one that wasn’t in a sling - a gentle pat. Though Jupiter station had a larger sickbay, Phlox boasted a better knowledge of the patient, and insisted on wheeling him to  _ Enterprise  _ for treatment, under orders from Jon too. Trip wasn’t sure that was necessary but he had to admit he felt better having Malcolm back on the ship. It felt like bringing him home almost.

Now, with  _ Enterprise  _ docked at the station, and the ceremony put on hold for the next few days, Trip had all but set up camp in sickbay. It only just ticked over into the early hours of tomorrow, as Trip found himself staring into the eyes of a stranger. Whoever he was, he was staring at Malcolm while he chewed on his bottom lip, hands coming up to his mouth as he took in the damage. Trip couldn't blame him really.

Malcolm was still as pale as a sheet, a breathing tube in his mouth and IV’s in both arms. What little skin that showed was mottled patches of red or purple, and Phlox had given him a close shave to stitch up the cut on his head. He looked a wreck.

“Oh Malcolm,” the blonde stranger whispers, one hand moving to wrap around Malcolm’s. That jarrs Trip, sends red alerts off at full volume.

“Who are you?” he manages to croak out, voice dry with lack of use. It comes out a lot harsher than he’d meant it to, but he hopes his face was tired enough to get away with it. The other man looks up, still nibbling on his lip.

“Oh, sorry, yeah,” he sticks out his hand which Trip goes to shake. “Leo Blythe, I work on the station.” His eyes dart back to Malcolm as though he wants to continue. “I ah… I’m his…”

Trip wonders if it was too late to retract his hand, but Leo’s fingers have already wrapped around his. If Trip squeezes a little hard, Leo doesn’t react.

“I know him,” Leo finishes quietly. Trip nods.

“Commander Tucker,” he replies, crossing his arms across his chest, arching his back just enough to make his uniform pull tight across his shoulders. There weren’t many opportunities to play up the scary commander now his crew know him so well, but this feels like the perfect time. He lets his hand drop only to find Malcolm’s other hand. The room becomes silent again, though now the atmosphere is so charged it’s nearly crackling.

“He’s my friend,” His voice is gruff, as he watches the steady rise and fall of Malcolm’s chest. “He’s got a lot of friends over here, they’ll all be wanting to see him.” Leo’s eyebrow quirk upwards and Trip wonders if it is a British thing, because he can feel the sarcasm dripping from words he hasn’t even spoken yet.

“At 0100 hours commander?” 

Trip’s face warms up and he shrugs. “Y’don’t always get to stick to a nice, routine bedtime on a starship.” Leo’s eyes narrow and his voice becomes a little more acidic.

“Yes, well neither do those who have to try and salvage what’s left of their home before they can come visit their friend on death’s door.“

Trip itches to respond but he knows it’ll sound catty. It seems like Leo thinks so too because he stares Trip down a few more seconds, before bending over to press a kiss to Malcolm’s temple. That’s the point at which Trip’s heart drops, because no way in hell would Malcolm ever let just anyone do that. Yet this Leo seems happy to pull up a chair and sit beside Malcolm, combing fingers through his hair and peppering those slender fingers with kisses, all while Trip stands watching, fingers now lying beside Malcolm’s. His throat closes up, and there’s a damn prickling in his eyes.

Without looking at him, Leo asks.

“Shouldn’t you get some sleep commander? I’m sure I can watch him for a few hours.”

The hand that hangs by Trip’s side clenches, a sudden urge to punch twisting it into a fist. He grabs another chair instead, plants himself beside Malcolm’s head and crosses his arms again.

“Nah, I got somethin’ I need to tell him.” That damn eyebrow twitch again.

“I don’t think he’s waking up anytime soon.” Trip shrugs, lets a small, smug look flash across his face.

“That’s fine, I can wait.”

He’s waited, what, nearly four years now. What’s a few more hours?

* * *

When he first blinks awake, Malcolm wonders if he’s been dreaming this past year, because he knows this bed, he knows this room and it’s feel. It’s sickbay, on  _ Enterprise. _ He can hear the rustle of a bat somewhere, smell disinfectant, feel the cooling breeze from the air conditioning unit above the bed. When his eyes glance as far to the right as they can, he sees blonde hair, a slumped figure on the side of his bed who’s wearing that navy blue uniform. Trip.

For one brief moment, everything is back to the way it was, even if there’s a something hard and painful in his mouth. He manages to deduce that it’s helping him breathe before drowsiness takes him back over the edge.

The next time he wakes the tube in his mouth is gone but there’s one in his nose and it feels wrong, so wrong, he wants to pull it out but when he lifts his hand, it’s heavy with someone else's. The movement wakes whoever it is from their daydreams, and Malcolm finds himself staring up into Trip’s eyes.

Then he smiles, the brightest smile, and his eyes twinkle as he reaches forward to cup Malcolm’s cheek.

“You’re awake,” he whispers, and Malcolm nods dumbly. He can’t quite work out what he wants to say, so he lets Trip continue. “You  _ have  _ to stop doing this Malcolm. You had us all worried for a while there.” Malcolm tires to think back to what landed him here, but everything is caught in a blanket of fog right now.

“What… happened?” He asks, voice tight and scratchy. Trip leans across him to find a water bottle. He begins unscrewing it slowly as he talks.

“You walked into the path of an explosion, that’s what you did.” He reaches over to lift Malcolm’s head enough for him to drink some of the water.  The feel of it running down his throat is blissful, and he lets his eyes fall closed as Trip helps him.

“Phlox patched you up though, but you’re on strict bed rest for a while,” his voice becomes deeper then, low and strained. “We.. almost lost you a couple’a times. God Malcolm… I leave you alone for one minute-”

Malcolm opens his eyes again and stares at Trip. It’s not like him to be so reserved with his words. It’s for a moment, right then, that Malcolm doubts everything, because Trip looks at him with a lightness he hasn’t seen in months and a smile so soft it only just shows in his eyes. It feels so much as though none of the terrible, awful stuff ever happened. Trip dips his head closer, and if Malcolm’s heart rate spikes they both ignore it.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. The sudden urge to kiss Trip right now makes Malcolm’s head spin. For one bizarre moment, he thinks Trip is actually going to kiss him. Before any such fantasies are realised, there’s the quiet swish of the door behind him, and both he and Trip turn at it.

“You’re awake!” Leo stands, a mug in hand, jaw hanging open. Just like that, all Malcolm’s illusions shatter. He stares, dumb founded as Leo crosses the room, mug shoved onto a countertop, forgotten instantly. In four strides, Leo has crossed the room and he reaches out with ease to caress the side of Malcolm’s face. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth again, and now there are tears in his eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Mal, don’t ever do that again-” he says, leaning over to kiss the most un-bruised part of Malcolm’s face. Malcolm doesn’t relax at his touch, rather he stiffens, jaw locking and eyes staring straight at the ceiling. Leo leans back, hurt written into every worry line etched into his face.

The sound of footsteps draws everyone’s attention up, and Malcolm doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to see Phlox. The doctor gives the two men either side of him stern looks, and then brushes past them to look at Malcolm’s charts.

“I know Mr. Reed has only just woken up gentlemen, but may I remind you it is quite late. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you  _ both  _ to leave,” he says, and he needn’t ask twice. Leo leans over to kiss him again, this time catching his lips. As he walks towards the door Trip wraps his hand around Malcolm’s forearm.

“See you tomorrow, Mal,” he says (if the nickname makes Leo flinch a little, Trip pretends like he hasn’t seen) nodding to Phlox before following Leo out.

Malcolm lets out a breath, wincing as it makes his broken ribs scream. Phlox drops all pretences of checking vitals and smiles down at him sadly.

“It’s good to see you lieutenant, though it’s a shame about the circumstances, I must say.” Malcolm throws him a fleeting smile.

“Same to you doctor.” Talking it seems, is nearly impossible to do above a whisper and he can still taste something smokey on his tongue. Phlox drops a hand to his shoulder and pats it reassuringly.

“As much as I would love to catch up, I think the quiet will do you good Mr. Reed. I can get you some movies to watch if you’d like?” He asks. Malcolm shakes his head, then gathers the strength to string a few more words together.

“I’d rather read… Do you have logs from-” his words catch in his throat, scratchy and rough like a knife in his gullet. Phlox quickly holds out the water, helping him sip at it. The good doctor nods as he does so.

“The logs from the past few months?” He sighs. “I’m sure I could get ahold of them somehow.”

The logs arrive the next morning in the hands of Travis Mayweather (along with a small basket of grapes) who gives Malcolm a megawatt grin as he hands them over.

“It’s good to see you sir,” he says with so much warmth Malcolm’s heart swells. There’s a sneaking pang of guilt that he has been so lost in himself that he barely even thought of the rest of his friends onboard, of having left Travis out of the loop, but the ensign doesn’t seem to mind.

“We were getting worried about you!” Malcolm glances questioningly, and Travis laughs.

“Hoshi’s outside too, but we weren’t sure if Phlox’d let us both pile in.” Malcolm can feel his cheeks warming and only hopes that it’s hidden by the marks on his face. He glances over Travis’ shoulder and sure enough, Hoshi is standing outside trying to look casual.

“I’m sure he won’t mind,” he says, and Travis is already jogging back to the door to pull Hoshi in. She stumbles through the doors, looking worried but her eyes light up at the sight of Malcolm.

“Lieutenant!” She calls, almost crashing into the side of his bed. “How are you? How have you been? I-ah, I mean you left so suddenly, I was worried- we were all worried!” The words just seem to tumble out of her, as her hands move to straighten his sheets, fretting over him. It honestly feels as though he hasn’t been away. He waves away her concerns.

“I’m fine thank you Hoshi,” though the aching radiating from his stomach is anything but. “How about you lot? What did I miss?” He doesn’t really care about every piece of gossip he’s missed but the thought of Hoshi and Travis just talking to him, treating him like normal, seems comforting. Hoshi must pick up on the thought because she launches into a quickfire run of the rumour mill, Travis adding to it, in between sneaking a few grapes. Malcolm nods, and hums and gasps in all the right places and he wishes suddenly to freeze this moment. Everything is like it used to be, and warm affection for the ensigns beside him makes his heart clench. It was as though he hadn’t realised what they had come to mean to him until he realised how much better he felt surrounded by them. Malcolm hadn’t had friends growing up, and he thought he had found it hard to make them as an adult. As it turned out, they had been on  _ Enterprise  _ the whole time.

* * *

Trip comes in the next day while he’s reading through the logs. Malcolm glances up and tries to smile, though it sends a dull kind of pain across his jaw. The commander looks as though he’s been up for hours, freshly dressed and well fed. It makes Malcolm feel even more at odds, with his baggy shirt and multitude of cuts and bruises. He’s reminded of the night they pulled him from his quarters after the Suliban interrogation, and he scoffs. Trip’s eyebrow does a remarkable impression of the sub-commander’s as he comes to a stop.

“Somethin’ funny lieutenant?” Malcolm shrugs as slowly as he can.

“A touch of d éjà vu, commander.” That gets a smile out of Trip.

“More than just a touch Malcolm,” he runs a hand across his jaw. “I’m sick’n tired of seeing you in here.”

“Good thing we’re in sickbay then, I’m sure Phlox has got something for the nausea,” he responds without even thinking. It’s strange how quickly they’ve slipped back into their old banter, so much so Malcolm honestly wonders if he’s fallen into some alternate timeline. It wouldn’t be too crazy, he muses. Trip’s laughter brings him back to the present though, whichever one it may be, and he finds himself smiling along.

“I’ll have to ask him when he gets back,” he glances around the otherwise empty sickbay.

“He went to lend a hand on the station, they’re talking about moving some patients over here I think.” Trip pulls a face.

“It’ll be pretty crowded, there were a lot of casualties last I heard…”

Malcolm finds himself staring at his feet, lighthearted mood seeping out of him quickly. He’s seen the reports. Five dead, but five too many. Three of his own team, including Jensen. Countless injuries, from broken arms to skull fractures, too many again. If he had only been more alert, worked out the alien’s plan of attack even minutes earlier, things could have been different. There’s a lump forming in his throat as he thinks it over, runs the day through his head over and over until there’s suddenly a hand on his.

“-alcom? Malcolm?” Trip looks worried.

“Where’d you go?” he asks with forced levity.

Malcolm blinks, confused.

“I… lost in thought,” he mumbles. Trip tries to smile.

“Try to stay onboard Lieutenant, I only just got you back.” There’s something heavy in the words, and Malcolm wonders if he meant to say  _ we  _ not  _ I.  _ The two of them are caught in a small silence. It sneaks its way around them, folds itself between them and catches in Malcolm’s throat. It makes Trip squeeze his fingers that little bit tighter. Malcolm can’t help it; the tears start falling. Silently, but with enough force to make his shoulders tremble. It’s just all too much, all these thoughts, all the feelings; the sheer enormity of everything that has changed over the past few months, but also what hasn’t. He can’t help it.

Then Trip’s hand is cupping his cheek like it’s the most normal thing in the world, thumb brushing away the tears. Then his forehead is pressed against his, and Malcolm can hardly see through the tears, but it looks like Trip’s crying too, and when he speaks his voice is thick.

“I got you Malcolm.” His voice is so close. Just like it used to be, God he thought he would never hear that voice again. “It’s gonna be okay.” Is that Trip’s hand on the back of his neck? “I’ve got you, I got you.” Trip’s lips are pressed to his head, and Malcolm is pulled against his chest. There’s that mixed scent of coffee and valve sealant that somehow meant Commander Tucker to him, and that reassured some part of him. The lieutenant inside him thankful for a senior officer, it slowed the tears.

A minute later, he falls completely quiet, still held tight in Trip’s arms. He pulls back and looks up at him, and he doesn’t have to think. He reaches up with his free hand, pulls Trip’s chin towards him and kisses him.

It’s like coming home, it’s the same feeling he had upon waking up back on Enterprise, only better. Trip pulls him closer, snakes an arm around his shoulders in a way that is so familiar it makes Malcolm’s heart soar. When they both pull back, there are tears in Trip’s eyes too. He sniffs, pressing a hand to his eyes before laughing quietly.

“You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that for…” Malcolm’s head spins and the confusion must show on his face. Trip gives him a small smile. “The day you went home, I realised- Lieutenant Reed, I think I love you.”

It was a small mercy that Phlox had removed the monitor cuff from Malcolm’s wrist, else his heart rate would have half the alarms in sickbay blaring.

“Oh. God.” Is about all he can get out. Trip’s face falls.

“Shit, Mal, way to break a guys heart!” Malcolm’s turn to look horrified, he grabs Trip’s hand with his uninjured one.

“No, Trip it’s nothing like that, it’s just-” Panic has suddenly washed over Malcolm and he isn’t sure why. It makes finding his words a lot harder.

“It’s me Trip, I- I-” he tries to take a steadying breath. “I do too, I think I- I always did.”  _ Fuck, why is it so hard to just say it? _

“Trip I love you too.” It’s not the right tone, it’s choppy and sharp but it gets his point across, just as he realises what the sharp pain blossoming in his chest is. His throat tightens and his vision goes dark. He tries to remember the tools his old therapist had given him as Trip slams a fist on a call button. He is vaguely aware of the sound of doors opening, but it’s all just background noise, until Phlox is there in front of him. Speaking to him slowly and quietly, centring him again. It takes a few minutes but he’s back.

“Lieutenant Reed,” Phlox starts, but Malcolm shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, doctor. Happened before, I’m fine.” Phlox gives him that disapproving look.

“Panic attacks don’t just happen Lieutenant, if you need to talk-” Malcolm shakes his head, unable to look the doctor in the eye. He notices that Trip is gone, and Phlox must realise what he’s thinking.

“I asked Mister Tucker to leave, he’s waiting just outside. He was very worried, and I must say, so am I, Mister Reed.”

“I think, in light of recent events, it was understandable. It’s been a hell of a week.”

The doctor regards him for a few more second and crosses his arms. “Forgive me for saying, but I think this has been going on a lot longer than a week.” He might have him there. Malcolm glances down at him lap, overwhelmed. Phlox reaches over in a gesture unusual for the doctor and squeezes Malcolm’s arm.

“You know you can always talk to me, Malcolm. You can ask for help, you’re not alone.” Malcolm finally looks over at the doctor and the sincerity in his gaze floods him. It makes the corners of his lips pull up into a small smile and he nods.

“Thank you, Phlox.”

* * *

They don’t talk much there and then, but Phlox offers him time each week, to come in and talk, as well as the number of a trusted therapist who offers mobile sessions. It’ll be a breakthrough, Malcolm says with a smirk, the first subspace therapy session. With somewhat of a plan, Malcolm feels a little more in control. A little more ready to face the world again, or at the very least, Trip, who comes rushing in as soon as Phlox lets him.

“You alright Malcolm?” Trip asks. Malcolm sighs.

“I don’t think I’ve been alright for a while. I’ll be okay though.” He grimaces, runs his free hand over his face. “You… you know I’m not good at talking about...feelings. But I do… I do love you. I just. You’re so… you, Trip. You can talk about this sort of thing, you’re a great person, you’re a wonderful partner. Me, not so much.”

Trip scoffs, but Malcolm continues, his old sarcasm seeping into his words.

“Mmm, yes severely depressed, non-committal, loner, alcoholic tendencies.” he catches Trip’s eyes. “All brilliant qualities, wouldn’t you say?” Trip doesn’t speak, so Malcolm continues.

“But I’m not saying I’m not interested Trip. Phlox is getting me sorted, I’ll work on myself.” he reaches over and loops their fingers together. “I really have liked you like this for the longest time.” Trip’s eyebrows rise.

“Really? Cause it took me a few years to work it out, how long’ve you known?”

“A few years,” he says with a wry smile. “Do you remember that time I got pinned to the hull of the ship? And you came running into the airlock - and then I passed out in the captain’s arms?” Trip nods. “All I remember after that was waking up here, and you were next to me, and I… yes, that’s when I realised.” Trip watches him for a moment, as if processing his words. Malcolm can almost see him replaying old memories, working out what had passed between them since.

He goes to look upset, but Malcolm waves it away.

“Before you get annoyed at yourself, I was a grumpy bastard most of the time. I don’t begrudge you being pissed at me most of the time. It was a hard time, for everyone.” A silence falls over them, so before it can get too sombre, he asks.

“When did you realise?” Trip smiles at that.

“When I went to Vulcan, would you believe? T’Pol’s mom was tellin’ me how I should be honest with my feelings and all I was thinking about was how much I know I don’t love T’Pol like that. And then when I went back to my room, I found this.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a familiar looking watch.

“I don’t really know how it ended up in my bag, but thank god it did. It made me realise who I really loved.” He offered it back to Malcolm. “Just in time.”

* * *

He has to talk to Leo, he tells himself. He doesn’t want to, he wants to just avoid it, but if he’s going to start working through everything, then he needs to tell him the truth. He sends him a message, asks him to come after lunch when Trip’s back at work.

When he walks in and sits at the end of the bed, there is a pain in Malcolm’s chest. He feels bad. But he knows, it wasn’t love he felt for Leo.  _ This is so unfair  _ he thinks.

So he tells him. He opens up, finally, tells this brilliant man that whatever they have can’t continue. That he hasn’t understood himself for the longest time, that he feels awful for dragging him into this. Leo ends up sliding off the bed, starts pacing sickbay, head down, arms crossed tightly. He looks like he wants to punch something, and Malcolm doesn’t blame him. When Leo asks if this is what he wanted, if he set out to date him knowing full well he wanted Trip, he’s thrown into silence.

“I don’t think I knew  _ what _ I wanted,” he finally says. Leo’s head snaps up, and he can’t tell if the tears in his eyes are from fury or sadness. He’s never been good at reading emotions right, as if this whole mess didn’t prove that enough. Maybe he was supposed to say something else, but the swirling emotion on Leo’s face threw him off and now he’s scowling at him.

“So I wasn’t even a fucking rebound,” he asks, voice cracking on the curse. “That I could at least have understood. I was just a- a- a temporary thing? A placeholder? Just something to while away the time with before the love of your life came back. String me along why don’t you, let me think we might be someday  _ be  _ something; Malcolm you had no intention of ever being with me, did you?”

Malcolm doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t. He just watches as the flame in Leo dies and his shoulder sag and the tears finally fall. “I don’t even… I can’t even hate you. I don’t think you understand any of this anymore than I do. This was… all of this was just one big... “ he bites his lip, searching for the right word but Malcolm already knows what’s coming.

“It was all just a mistake. Wrong time, wrong place… it just didn’t work out,” Leo’s breath hitches for a second, and he lets out a low hum as he tries to hold back the tears again. “Maybe in another life, hmm?” He presses a hand to his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t think there’s a good way to end this Malcolm.”

He shakes his head. “Would it mean… I want to say- I’m sorry. I’m fucked up Leo. That doesn’t make up for what I did. It’s not,” he tries to catch Leo’s eye but he won’t quite look at him.

“It’s not an excuse. Phlox has finally got me… talking to someone. I’ve not been… okay in a long time. And it was wrong of me to drag you into it all. I’m so sorry.”

Leo watches him in silence for a moment, and then walks over, cupping his chin gently.

“You look after yourself Mister Reed, okay?”

Malcolm nods, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

“I think it’s best I leave. I should go home... Earth home. Mum’s probably worried sick.” He presses a quick kiss on Malcolm’s temple.

“Goodbye Malcolm,“ he goes to move his hand, but Malcolm grabs it before he can remove it completely.

“I’m sorry, Leo.”

“Me too Malcolm, me too.”

* * *

Leo doesn’t return to the  _ Enterprise  _ again. He writes Malcolm though, letting him know he made it home safe, that he plans on opening shop on solid land this time. That he’ll need time to work through the tangled web of feelings they’ve created but that maybe, one day, they could be friends.

Malcolm thinks that might be a nice idea.


	9. Chapter 9

Archer comes by Sickbay that evening. He looks more sombre than usual, maybe Trip had told him what happened earlier. Malcolm tries to smile, and Archer sees right through it.

“What happened Malcolm?”

“Nothing happened, sir. I’ve always been like this.” It was meant to be funny, but maybe it was something in the accent that didn’t translate. Archer looks horrified for a second and then does the unexpected and pulls Malcolm in for a hug. It’s short, and he’s careful to avoid squashing his more tender parts, but it’s a hug nonetheless.

Malcolm turns red, Archer just grins.

“That was probably completely unprofessional lieutenant, but forgive me; you looked like you could use it.”

They talk a little then, about the  _ Enterprise  _ and the past few months. Archer convinces Malcolm to come to the upcoming ceremony, and then asks quietly what he plans to do next. He shrugs. He hadn’t thought much about that, he assumed he’d be carted off back home and he says as much. Archer reaches out and pats his shoulder.

“You know, there’s always a place for you here Malcolm. The MACO’s stepped in, and your team worked wonders but the Enterprise is always going to need her armoury officer.”

Maybe, Malcolm wonders as he nods in a stunned silence, maybe this is what coming home feels like.

* * *

Four days later, they head back to Earth. Malcolm gets the closest to an all clear that he’s going to get; he’s out of his sling, and can just about walk unaided. The bandages under his shirt are bulky, but they keep whatever miracle goo Phlox has slathered over the healing wound in place, and for once Malcolm doesn’t complain because the stuff is heavenly. It keeps his side pleasantly numb all day, means he can stand for the entire session. As the applause dies down and the groups intermingle; polite conversations are struck up, officials start nodding and thanking the crew, and Malcolm wonders if he may have overdone it. The painkillers start wearing off as he tries to discuss plans to put an Andorian ambassador onboard the  _ Enterprise  _ with some high ranking officials. Just in time, Trip appears behind him as he mumbles his apologies and stumbles backwards into the commanders waiting arms.

“You’ll have to excuse the lieutenant,” Trip says, sounding more than a little proud as he slips an arm under Malcolm’s shoulder. “He’s only just recovered from saving everyone's life up on Jupiter Station.” That gets a few gasps and some murmurs, as Trip guides Malcolm towards a chair.

“That’s not exactly how I remember it,” Malcolm winces as he lowers himself into it.

“Near enough. You’ve saved our asses enough times, wanna make sure everyone knows what a hero you are,” Trip says, flashing a grin at him. Malcolm laughs, despite the pain. The evening rolls on, turns into drinks at at reception, turns into half the crew going off to celebrate crew leave in San Francisco’s nicest bar, turns into Trip helping Malcolm to his room for the evening. 

The night turns into the two of them sitting side by side on the bed, hands entwined. Trip up against the pillows, Malcolm’s head on his shoulders. There’s a bottle of wine in the mini fridge, but neither feels like it. There’s an old film running, something full of explosions but Malcolm can’t quite keep his eyes open for them. Trip shifts a little, yawns. It’s warm and cosy in this fancy hotel room, and they have the entire morning to sleep in tomorrow.  _ Enterprise  _ is shipping out two days from now. Malcolm won’t be fully healed yet, but he’ll be back to work by the end of the month. He knows he has a lot of work to do, and not just onboard the ship. It’ll take some time, probably some difficult talks with Phlox, but he has someone to help him do it now.

“Trip?”

Fabric rustles as Trip looks over at him.

“Yeah?”

Malcolm leans up and kisses him, slow and soft. He can feel Trip smile against him, and it makes him smile too, and then Trip laughs and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. Malcolm pulls back.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a mostly self-indulgent epilogue of cute sappy things. Contracry to what I may have you beleive I am not an angst fiend, I do need my soft sappy stuff lol. I do hope you've enjoyed, I'd love to hear from you if you did! Thanks for reading, I promise my next finished WIP will be something other than tucker/reed! <3


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